Losing Touching Searching

LOSING
TOUCHING
SEARCHING
A FICTIONAL AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY
ANTHONY BARNHART
LOSING TOUCHING SEARCHING 2
ANTHONY BARNHART
This novel is dedicated to those precious persons who stood by my side in my

darkest hours.
Special thanks in particular go to two of my good friends from college, Caleb

Payne and Emily Allen. And the most special thanks of all goes to my sister,
Amanda, who never left my side through all the hell I went through.
Thank you. It is because of the sacrifices you made that I am writing this right
now—and not lying in a freshly-dug grave.
+++
Was I bewitched so by the thin red line

To notice not that time released its hold
And let pale Iris snip the silver twine
To steal sweet youth before it turned to gold?
Existence now is not what I was told;
No seraphim and harps to grace my ear,
Just silence, painful silence, and the cold
Discomfort of my masochistic fear,
So icy cold, yet somehow seems to sear
My soul until the ache's too much to bare,
As mortal life mirages now appear:
Intangible are they; away they tear.
Mistake, it was; the curtain fell too soon
When razor's edge did charm me like the moon.
(anonymous)
ANTHONY BARNHART
ANTHONY BARNHART
Author’s Note:
From October of 2006 to February of 2007, I went through what I call the darkest hours of
my life thus far. Following the break-up with my second girlfriend, I entered into a state of
suicidal depression that lasted many months. During this period of time, my perspective of
God was crushed to powder and then rebuilt. While these were without question the most
despairing moments of my life thus far, they are also the pinnacle of the development of
my character and wisdom.
This is perhaps one of the most peculiar books I have ever written. I say this because it is
vastly different from my other works, both fiction and non-fiction. In the writing of this
book, I have drawn from many different sources: my online journals, my hand-written
diaries, countless memories, and my own love of fiction. While not all of the stories in this
book are factual, a majority arise from certain experiences. I have strived to capture the
essence of these stories by incorporating journal entries and such of that nature into the
narrative. Block text represents actual, un-doctored accounts of my struggles, written
during the actual moments of my suffering.
This has been the most difficult book for me to write thus far in my writing career. I was
forced to go back and relive the sweet days of my ex-girlfriend, to thrust myself back into
my emotional trauma, and in so doing, I had to once more sift through much emotional
pain and baggage. I am thankful that this book has been both enjoyable (in an odd sense)
and therapeutic.
I must point out that this book is not written for the pleasure of the reader. At times, it will
be difficult to read. Other times it will be monotonous, and at times it will seem to jump
back and forth in content. While it will appear that I spent little time organizing the
material, this is actually because I am representing the facts to the best of my ability. Life
doesn’t always work itself out in clear-cut narrative outlines. It is much more organic than
that, and I have sought to capture the organic—and painful—realities of life.
This is a book that captures my emotional suffering and the influence it had on my
spirituality. However you wish to approach this work, my hope is that you will find it
enjoyable and enlightening. May it be a testament for all who struggle with depression, and
may it bring hope to those for whom hope has become a curse.
ANTHONY BARNHART
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Infractus Fatum”
Broken Destiny
a poem
He stands and watches her walk away,

her arms around the one
who told him, “Everything will be okay.
God has a plan.”
He watches the streetlights shine,
the light dancing through her beautiful hair
“It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.
Where did I go wrong?”
He watches her walk away, and with her
everything he always wanted leaves him,
and he falls upon the ground, broken and
beaten, the life streaming from his heart.
She disappears into the shadows, but he can
still hear her laugh, can still feel her breath,
can still see her eyes as they peer into his
and speak: “I want to be with you forever.”
A quiet rain begins to fall, the water running
between his shaking fingers, washing away
all his hopes and dreams, carrying away
everything he always longed for.
The rain grows harder, soaking his clothes,
and the thunder crackles, but all he can hear
is her sweet voice: “I like you and I feel like
I always will. Let’s make memories together.”
The tears mix with the rain, and his breaking heart
finds its resonance in the booming thunder
Where did I go wrong?”
He does not want answers. He does not want comfort.
He does not want your theology, nor your philosophy.
He wants one thing, the thing that haunts him.
ANTHONY BARNHART
He wants her back. He wants to hold her, comfort her,

tell her he loves her and that he always will.
“I love her,” he weeps in the middle of the street.
“I love her. I want her. I just want her.”
He wants to run his fingers through her hair,
wants to kiss her and cherish her and
give her the world. He wants her to know
that real love exists.
But she has left him. She has taken his heart and
wrenched it in two. “I didn’t want to,” she said.
“I didn’t want to hurt you.” But you still hurt me.
You took my dreams and stomped them underfoot.
His heart burns. It aches. He loved her. He loves her.
He will always love her. All he wants is her.
Now she runs off with his best companion.
Now he has taken that which he loved the most.
All the quiet laughs, the gentle moments,
all are lost into the hands of betrayal.
The evening has turned to night. The rain falls.
What did I do wrong?”
His hands unfurl and he holds it in his palm.
The blade glints in the dim glow of the streetlights;
the water runs down the serrated edges
and the steel sparkles with the flashes
of lightning.
What did I do wrong?”
His life has fallen apart. His love has abandoned him.
His friend—the only one there for him—has betrayed him.
His god has seemingly turned his back on him.
“My future is darkness, despair, hopelessness, resignation.
For what purpose do I exist, but to suffer with each passing moment?”
He takes the hilt in his hands, twists the blade towards his heart.
His heart has already been broken; it lies in pieces behind his ribs.
What harm can a mere physical blade do? Her words
have pierced him like a thousand burning arrows.
To some, death is bitter, an enemy, a gall.
ANTHONY BARNHART
To others it is the sweet song of life, a deliverance, a gift.

The blade drips with water; it will be easy
to pierce the clothes.
He looks up to see if she may return, daring beyond all logic
that she may come back, fall upon her knees,
and say what she said just last night:
“I want to be with you forever.”
But no one comes.
He is utterly alone.
He closes his eyes. He sees all their memories rushing him
at once, a mosaic of life and love and happiness—
a forgotten existence. He sees her
hair blowing in the wind on that fall trip to the park; sees her
dimples when she smiles at his innocent jokes; sees
the way her cheeks sparkle in the evening sun; sees
the quiet dances of her eyes sending messages of adoration.
He feels her fingers wrapping around his own, feels the
warmth of her embrace; feels
her breath tingling against his neck; feels
her dove-soft hair tickling his cheek.
One thrust, and it will all be over. One thrust
and the memories will be gone. One thrust, and all the
suffering, the pain, the agony, the despair,
all the hopelessness, the futility, the resignation
will be gone… vanquished as his blood runs between
the cobblestones and disappears in the rain.
His arms are shaking. Excitement? Anxiety? Fear?
He has no other desire in the world, but to
plunge the knife deep down into his heart,
to break the cycle of his life, a life
of heartache, heartbreak, of constantly and always
never being good-enough, cool-enough, good-looking-enough,
never talented enough, cute enough, never smart enough,
never wonderful enough, never tall and dark and handsome.
This is an end to all the inadequacies that scar his own reality.
His fingers wrap tight around the hilt; the blade sings sweetly in his ears.
“I can’t go on,” he weeps. “I can’t go on. I can’t go on…”
He just wants to love and be loved, to cherish and be cherished,
ANTHONY BARNHART
to understand and be understood, to comfort and be comforted,

to be there and have her be there for him.
Not anyone will do; she is the one, the only one.
She made his heart quicken, his pulse jump,
his muscles go limp. Now she has made
his heart fall to pieces,
his pulse shall die, and now
she has made the muscles poise
for the only refuge he can fathom.
He looks towards heaven, into the flashing lightning and the thunder.
He cries out for deliverance, but there is no answer.
The angels have shut their mouths.
Even God has turned His back on him.
His cheeks are pale with the pallor of dejection, and
his eyes see a future of bleak shadows and whispered
regrets. His cries come from the deep wells
of a broken heart engraved forever with the
deep stains of long-lost love:
“I want her. All I want is her. I just want to be with her.”
He would do anything for a second chance.
It will not come.
He wants to be with her badly.
But she turned her back on him.
She left him in the cold, naked and shivering,
exposed to all the mockeries of romance.
She took his heart, crumbled it in her fingers,
and spit upon the remnants.
He would have given her the world:
but she took the world away from him.
He takes a deep breath, the raindrops in the air filling
his lungs, and the world spins to a halt:
the raindrops hang suspended, reflecting
the streetlights, a panorama of diamonds;
the lightning bolts across the sky hover,
their electricity spinning webs in the clouds;
his heart holds to its last beat,
the meaningless blood in his veins
drawing their last breaths.
ANTHONY BARNHART
A deep serenity embraces him, promising him

the only security he has ever tasted.
With a single wrench of the muscles,
the blade pierces his shirt and enters
his flesh, the serrated edges chewing
flakes of bones from his ribs before
the heart is torn in inexorable agony.
He pitches forward, limbs suddenly weak,
and he stares at the ground, the puddles
reflecting the grotesque mask upon his face:
a mask of disenchantment,
a mask of resolution,
a mask of the only hope he knows.
He falls onto his back and finds himself sprawled
in the middle of the street, the blood soaking
his shirt and mixing with the rain.
The raindrops feel cool upon his burning face.
His fingertips tingle; his face goes pale.
He closes his eyes and lets the strength drip
from his soul. All he can think about is how
the knife does not cause him as much pain
as the words she spoke to him:
“I don’t love you anymore.
I don’t want to be with you.
I want to be with your best friend.”
He closes his eyes, and he embraces the
quietness, the darkness, and the serenity.
All the memories, the pains, and the
weeping is forgotten as he shuts down.
He lies on the street: broken, bloodied,
marred, and maimed. But now he is truly
alive.
ANTHONY BARNHART
ANTHONY BARNHART
PROLOGUE
The Eve of Resolution
Tuesday, February 14, 2007 — VALENTINE’S DAY [journal entry]
I want to kill myself.

I have only loved one girl. Only one. She was the answer to my prayers.
And then she left me, and one of my best friends went after her.
My heart is broken and in shambles. I feel absolutely abandoned by God. I feel like I
don't deserve her, I never deserved her, I was too sinful to ever be with her. I feel as if I was
meant to be with her, but I fucked it up.
“Why is my life always like this?! Why doesn't God ever look at me and answer my
prayers?! How come every day of my life thus far has been spent in pain and agony, and
any taste of goodness and grace is quickly replaced with more pain and agony that makes
it disappear?!”
Every time things start going my way, somehow it all gets fucked up. I get fucked-
over. I'm this close to just saying "Fuck it all." Because the way it looks, God is either a
sadistic, cruel bastard who takes delight in making His children suffer, or He's not there at
all. And if God is sadistic and cruel, He doesn't deserve my worship, and I'm not going to
place my hope in Him. And if He isn't real... well, we're just worshiping and praying to the
air. Our hopes are ill-founded dreams. It means nothing. It's all meaningless. This world is
fucked up. I'm fucked up. Hope is a damn illusion.
ANTHONY BARNHART
ANTHONY BARNHART
CHAPTER ONE
The Evolution of Hopeless Romanticism
“We live in such a brutal, ugly world, where we are born once, we die later,
and in between is nothing but suffering with occasional moments of
happiness.”
(the narrator)
As I tell this story of one of my greatest struggles with God—a struggle that began in High
School and reached its pinnacle my sophomore year of college—I will be drawing from all
sorts of sources to give you a keener, more pristine look at my journey; these sources
include conversations with friends I’ve written down and journal entries from my daily
diary. I’m not going to lie: I am frightened of writing this. As I write this right now, I don’t
know how this story will turn out. I have several ideas that I would like to happen, but my
aim in this is to deliver you a historical account of what it’s like to wrestle with God—and
to be on the verge of suicide as you bathe in hopelessness and despair. Many people will
not be able to truly understand what I have gone through, but many more will be able to
relate. My hope and my prayer is that those who read this will be encouraged in their
wrestling with God, will find hope in a God who does not abandon His children, and that
this may open peoples’ eyes to the agonies of the depressed. It sickens me how Christians
sometimes treat the depressed; one person once told me (and I quote):
“The Bible clearly teaches that ‘he is happy who has the Lord as his God.’
This promise remains true despite any ‘clinical’ condition. So why would a
Christian be depressed? A depressed Christian is either someone who is not
a Christian at all or someone who has sin in their life that they have not
repented of. Their sin has opened them up to a spirit of possession of
depression, and they need to repent and renounce all such involvement
with the sin that has separated them from God and opened them up to
demonic attack. All God’s promises are true, and Jesus promised peace to
his people. So a depressed Christian is either not a Christian at all or
someone who has sinned and opened themselves up to Satan trying to mess
up their life. The answer is not in medicine or counseling but in repentance
and repentance alone.”
I’m not going to tear apart this ignorant statement in its totality, but I will say this:
“Some of the greatest Christian writers and thinkers and heroes of the faith may have had
some form of depression.” Biblical scholars often speculate that the infamous King David
ANTHONY BARNHART
was a manic-depressant (such as myself!), and others have speculated that even the Apostle
Paul struggled with depressed moods. Anyone reading the Old Testament book of Job can
see that the main character went through an incredibly depressed state, even to the point of
being suicidal. The famous Old Testament prophet Jeremiah has also been designated as
one possibly struggling with manic depression. “What is it that causes depression?”
Depression is caused by many factors (biological, psychological, sociological [i.e.
circumstances], and spiritual). All of these played into the great struggle in which I bathed.
Biologically, I had low serotonin and dopamine (the “pleasure” chemicals of the brain that
release “happiness”). Psychologically, I had a lot of emotional baggage carried into my
subconscious through my teen years. Sociologically, the breakup with the “girl of my
dreams” contributed to my near suicide. Spiritually, I had fallen far from the presence of
God, and while my salvation was not in jeopardy, I had lost the intimacy with Him I had
once had.
When all of this began, I had no idea that all of the factors contributing to depression
were being born within me. When I was in High School, I was known amongst my church
as the crazy kid who laughed all the time. Whenever my friends were stressing out or
having a hard time, I’d comfort them and say, “Just relax, Man, everything will be okay.
Life is good.” And I believed it. Yet buried thoughts and bottled emotions began to well up
within me like a volcano ready to erupt, and the magma started flowing sometime around
my senior year of High School. The eruption that would totally change my life would come
in October of my sophomore year at college.
Everyone has dreams. Most of my friends from High School dreamt of one day being
in a famous musical group. Another planned on acting her way onto Broadway. My dream,
while sounding to be the simplest, seemed to me to be the most difficult. All I’ve ever
wanted—what I’ve always wanted to accomplish in my life—is to become a good husband
and a good father. This dream has always had a tendency to elude me, however, for I have
not been blessed with incredibly good looks, a witty sense of humor, nor a remarkable
charm. All throughout High School I was just your average kid with a weird personality
who read theology textbooks in study hall. I was often teased, but it never bothered me. I
had bigger dreams than the potheads who would throw pencils at me. I would be able to
keep my head high, pushing forward with joy towards this dream, but at times it ate me
away to the point of my near entire consumption. As my heart burned in what seemed to
be like an empty dream, I wrote in my journal:
There are things I desire so strongly; they are built within me. I desire a
paradise of oceans and rivers and canyons and waterfalls more than I desire
lifting my hands to God for eternity. I desire peace and joy, a simple life. I
desire laughter and friendship and love. I desire a girl who loves me, a girl
whom I love, to spend the rest of my life and eternity with. I desire an end
to my emotional pain. I desire an end to the pain of my illnesses, the pain of
my acne, an end to the judgmental and sickened stares, an end to the quiet
“Hellos” instead of hugs, being ignored instead of greeted, greeting cold
stares and empty hearts, an end to the shit in my bravado-esteemed life.
ANTHONY BARNHART
God has given me so much, but my selfishness becomes so evident. So

much of the things He has given me I would feel tempted to give up just for
a taste of that which I desire the most—a girl to love, a girl to love me, a girl
to experience life with. What does it mean when the psalmist writes,
“Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your
heart?” I must admit that sometimes I feel stubbornly abandoned by God.
Let me be quite frank: at times having this dream is so painful, especially when you
see all your friends in relationships, always dancing in joy and holding close the ones they
love. At times the pain in my heart is nearly unbearable. When I see romance before me, it
is as if someone is holding out the morsels of a cake to a starving man, begging him,
“Come! Eat!”, but yet the starving man is chained to a wall and cannot reach the cake. A
crude analogy, I’m sure, but I hope it captures the poignant pain of what it is like to see
your desires lived out in everyone’s life but your own; but, oh!, how painful it is to have
your greatest dream handed to you on a silver platter only to be viciously taken away. It is
pure, hellish torment (but that comes later).
With our dreams come our fears, and my greatest dream manifested itself as my
greatest fear, which I captured in January of my senior year:
Do you know what I’m afraid of? I’m so afraid. I never thought I would say
this to you: I am afraid of being alone. This fear haunts me, eats me, and
consumes me, day in and day out, judging and liquidating my every move.
I fear, so badly, never having anyone. I fear growing old, cold, and alone,
never tasting love, and dying alone and forgotten in a decrepit hospice,
those whitewashed tombs. I am so afraid I will never taste the kiss of a girl
or feel the warmth of her body close; I am so afraid I will never be the focus
of sparkling eyes and a tender touch and shy smiles. I fear never being
loved, only watching others parade in fashion, hungering and thirsting and
crying in my own silence. I can’t rationalize my fear away; you can’t
rationalize the fear of snakes or spiders, and my life’s history gives no
alternate meaning: “No one wants you, and all who might want you will be
taken from you.” I am left alone, unwanted, watching my friends and their
girls, watching the object of my passion for so long taken by a best friend—
and he forgets me [an event in High School that foreshadows, ironically,
what would happen my sophomore year of college]. For so long I’ve lain
alone at home in bed as my friends went out with all those who shared
affection.
I don’t want sex or making out. I want someone to talk with, someone to
hold close, a girl who doesn’t shiver at my sight but draws near, finding
comfort and refuge in my arms. When she cries, I want to hold her. When I
cry, I want her to hold me. I am a romantic shunned, looking around and
ANTHONY BARNHART
seeing sex-mongers cheating the romance out of girls, leaving them hollow,
sluttish shells—the rape of all good and true. I want a girl so badly, a
genuine and authentic, loving and cherished, a beautiful and captivating
girl to find a hiding place in my love, to cry no more. I want to go to
candlelit dinners, to hold her by a fire, to feed off her warmth under the
stars, to whisper in her ear, “I love you. It will be okay.”
Did you ever see the movie Donnie Darko? Donnie falls in love with
Gretchen, and she is killed—run over by a car. It is very tragic. This haunts
me, sears me, paralyzes me. It comes up in my dreams and nightmares. I am
Donnie—weird, socially blundering, wanting the girl. Gretchen is the one
whom I seek; I am the one who’s filled her dreams of weddings and
engagements and honeymoons. Then she is taken, brutally and savagely,
innocent and angelic, battered and bloodied. This I fear, too: discovering the
One—and she is taken from me. I fear she shall be taken from me.
When February of my senior year rolled around, one of the biggest school dances of
the year came onto the doorstep. This had always been a battleground of sorts for me; it
was when my hopeless romanticism crashed to the ground, for I was not popular-enough
or handsome-enough to ever land a date. I vividly remember a pack of girls saying, “You
should go with Anthony,” and then all of the girls shaking their heads. One girl said, “I
think I just threw up in my mouth.” The year before that dance, I had asked one of my
friends named Kristen to go to the dance with me. She had said “No.” I’d had a crush on
her for the longest time. She then proceeded to date one of my best friends, and my best
friend forgot about me.
My senior year, I asked a friend of mine if she’d like to date me.
“Are you serious?” she asked, dumbfounded.
I stood there like a manikin, frozen in time; my tongue swelled up as the moisture in
my mouth evaporated. “Ummm… yeah,” I stammered.
She seemed taken-aback. “Oh. Well. Let me think about it, okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
The next day she called me. “If we date, it’d have to be a secret.”
“That’s fine with me,” I said. So poisoned was I with a desire to be with this girl that I
was blinded to the shallowness of her words.
A few days later, she came over to my house. I asked, “Have you done anymore
thinking?”
“Yeah,” she said. “And I think we can date…” My heart leapt within me! Finally! My
prayers have been answered! “But only if you lose weight first and get rid of your acne.” Her
words cut through me like a polished brazen sword; my insides fell into the grave and the
color drained from my face. A brilliant anger welled up within me. I told her, “Get out of
my house.” And that was the end of that friendship.
That night, as tears crawled down my face, I wrote in my journal:
ANTHONY BARNHART
So if you have faith even as small as a mustard seed, then you can say to a
mountain, “Jump into the sea,” and it will do so? Then what is it that I’m
missing? Where have I fallen short? For I cry out in tears of distress, sorrow
breathes in my face, and depression holds me under the water where I fight
and kick and gasp and choke and strangle for air—hopelessness is my
name, my trademark.
I have held on to faith and pleaded, sobbed, cried out to Him, “Help me!
Your arm is out and you’re quick to save, so why don’t you just do it
already?!” What more is needed? How many more over-the-counter second-
take looks, how many more lonely nights of heartache, how many
disillusioned glances cast over my shoulder must pass before God hears my
prayers? All my hopes are dashed upon the stones, the fragments lost in a
tundra of stars, weak and desperate fingers clutching at them amidst bitter
laughter and quiet mockery. Any sprouting turn-of-chance is burnt and
withered under a god-forsaken moon, smothered in the ashes of a crimson
generation.
Does God turn His head? Does He enjoy watching my pitiful displays of
ignorant cries and lavished tears?
“I know you can save me!” I scream. “I know you can save me! Why won’t
you? You created the Milky Way galaxy and all the planets, split an entire
sea apart, knocked down mighty fortress walls into dusty piles of rubble!
You can help me—you can save me—with the snap of your fingers! Why
not?! Why not?!”
How come I am forced to see my hopes pulled asunder by the greedy

fingers of the most fortunate?
How come everything I’ve always wanted is handed over to a turncoat so

she can completely abandon me?
How come I have to see them crawling over each other, “in love”, she’s
waiting for the ring—how come?
How come, for three long years, I have drowned in an ocean of tears,
making blundering mistakes, putting on a display of fool-kingdom for the
world to see, and in prayers of, “Make it or leave it,” you left me empty and
yet full, asphyxiating under the burden of a weight I could not carry?
ANTHONY BARNHART
How come for those three years you seemed to turn a blind eye, and then
threw all I’d ever wanted, prayed for, mulled over, contemplated and
exalted, into the hands of a good friend—and he turns his back on me!
How come I am so cursed with horrible looks that I have to fight for just a
little taste of humane normalcy?
How come all I’ve ever wanted is flaunted before my eyes, and then
snatched into eternity?
No answers, only tears, and one whisper: “I love you.”
I didn’t know it at the time, but I tasted the first-fruits of “manic-depression” or

“bipolar disorder,” of which 2/3 of all victims receive the disease genetically. My mom’s
side of the family has a history of mental disorders, and I got some of the worst of it. At this
time in life, depression had not yet reared its ugliest head—that of seriously contemplating
suicide—but the first symptoms of manic-depression showed their faces: lasting sadness,
anxiousness, and empty moods; feelings of hopelessness and pessimism; and feelings of
worthlessness.
The summer before my freshman year of college at Cincinnati Christian University
went by quickly, as I served as a youth ministry intern for a church in Springboro, Ohio.
Nervousness consumed me when I moved into the dorms, but I quickly adapted to the
place and made countless friends. I began the life of going to classes, eating lunch at the
coffee shop, and watching movies and messing around in the hallways—you know, “the
Christian college life”—and enjoyed it immensely. Yet all of this did not push away my
hopeless romanticism.
“I am a romantic at heart,” I told my roommate John, “but I’m afraid that I’ll never
taste that which I truly desire.”
“Shut up, Shakespeare,” he said jokingly; “I’m watching ‘Alien Versus Predator’.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
The fall of my freshman year at college proved to be somewhat difficult around mid-
October, when the Ohio leaves begin to turn and fade and take on a whole host of autumn
hues. It is at this time when my romantic desires burn with a fervor that cannot be
quenched. Hope and hopelessness battled within the caverns of my soul, and this great
internal war fleshed itself out in my journal:
I’m not going to lie. I want to cry right now. I lie here in my bed, and my
heart aches for romance. I am parched and falling apart, my heart melting
like wax and my bones popping out-of-joint. Hope is such a painful thing
sometimes. It can be redemption or a curse. I want her; I want her with all
my heart, mind, strength, and soul, but I don’t even know who she is.
WHY DON’T THINGS EVER CHANGE?
ANTHONY BARNHART
All my life has been a romantic tragedy, and the implanted desires of my
heart have only a future of weeping and withering. I ask for only one thing
and am denied. I pray that my friends like me would find the ones they are
looking for—and they’re so close! One is already there!
WHY AM I ALWAYS THE LONE MAN OUT?
I was taken from my first girlfriend when my family moved. My second

girlfriend Rachel moved away from me. My third girlfriend—Rikki—moved
away from me. Krissie told me, “You’re not hot or popular enough for me.”
Kristen took my best friend. Dylan doesn’t even want a girl, but God has
gifted him with his dream girl.
And here I am. Alone. Forsaken? Destitute.
I want things to change. I want a breath of fresh air. I’m tired of moping
around these journals, writing depressing words and vying for an ounce of
hope. I’m tired of only knowing longing.
Could God—would God?—pity me and come to my deliverance? He has

fashioned my heart. Why must I suffer like this? Is He not all-powerful?
Can’t He speak and make things happen? He spoke the universe into
existence—am I too small and insignificant for His divine touch? I cry out
only for help! I lift up the needs of others and He displays wonderful
power… But come to me, He grows quiet.
God, I pray, bring her to me, please! Bring her soon! I need her! You have designed
me like this! Why is the glass always so empty and my throat always so parched?
Fill the glass with water! Renew my heart! Show her to me—and act! I beg of you!
And if He says, “No,” what will I do? I will pray: “Vanquish these romantic
desires—they torment me day-and-night!” But I know the romantic desires and
who I am cannot be separated, for they are me and I am them. So I walk
either in contentment or suffering—and too far-off to help myself.
THE QUESTIONS BURN ME.
Why must my dreams always be dreams?
Why must my heart always ache like this?
Why must I cry tears of bitter pain all the days of my life?
ANTHONY BARNHART
Why has God made me like this—and then left me alone?
Why must I always long—and never be longed-for?
WHY?
OH! FOR THINGS TO CHANGE!
I want a girl who longs for me, who loves me, who thinks about me all the
time. I want a girl who likes me for me, who will listen to my rants and pen
her heart, who will hold me and whom I will hold, who proudly clings to
my arm and tells everyone, “He’s my boyfriend.” I want a girl who will
blush and grin when I tell people, “She’s my girlfriend.” I want a girl who
will never let go of me, a girl who is real and honest and authentic. I want a
girl to call my own, and I want a girl who will write love poems about me in
her journals. A girl who is proud to call herself ‘his girl.’
I need her.
Does she exist?
Despite the incredible pain that hope brings the fragile soul, I refused to let hope slide
from between my fingers. Sometimes it felt as if it were sand, and no matter how tightly I
held onto it, it still managed to make its escape. Some friends and I discovered a small park
that overlooked Cincinnati—Mt. Echo—and I began to go there often. I would go two or
three times a week, and I picked up smoking cigars. I would smoke a cigar while
overlooking the city. Two of my greatest moments at the park took place near the beginning
of the school year just as the last leaves began to fall to the ground and wither amongst the
first sighs of fall. I would walk the trails in the woods, listening to my IPOD. On one trek I
found a fallen tree, and from then out it became my “spot.” I would go there, smoke my
cigar, and pray. Most of the time these prayers were pleas for deliverance. My heart burned,
it ached, it smoldered within me, and I wanted God to put out the unquenchable furnace. I
would also park my JEEP beside the overlook; as the fall rains would drizzle in their misty
haze, I would smoke a cigar and look out at a picturesque town across the river that
hovered on the Kentucky banks. Several baseball fields dotted the river’s banks, and across
the street from the baseball fields were several Victorian-style houses with porticoes and
covered front porches. I would close my eyes and let my imagination take me to a future
time when I would take my kids across the fields to throw a ball back and forth, and I
thought of sitting on that front porch with my beautiful wife, watching the morning fog roll
off the river as the sun crawled up behind us, a mug of hot and steaming coffee clutched
between waking fingers.
In October, I met a girl named Mandy. I was attracted to her upon first sight. I built up
the nerve and formed a friendship with her, and eventually I did an unthinkable thing for
ANTHONY BARNHART
someone so shy and cautious as myself: I told her I liked her. She told me she liked me, too,
and invited me to come to her house that weekend to meet her parents. Her baby sister was
adorable, and during our whole time there, we cuddled and talked and chatted late into the
night. When we returned, I kissed her on the cheek. I woke up the next morning, vibrant
and alive, thanking God for finally answering my prayers. My heart overflowed with
exuberant thanksgiving. That afternoon, she called me and said, “I lied to you. I actually
don’t like you. I like your friend.” And then she ran off after him, only to get denied: he had
no interest in her. This completely tore my insides into a million pieces, and I remember
driving home—having to escape the campus, where the pain thrived the most—, and the
whole time tears crawled down my cheeks. My mother embraced me, my sister did, too,
and my father kept me company beside a fire as night embraced our home. When I
returned to campus the next day, I felt like I was handling everything fine—until I saw
Mandy laughing and having a good time in STUDENT LIFE. She tried to catch me and talk to
me, but I escaped through the coffee shop and maneuvered down the steps into my dorm
before she could reach me. I rushed up the steps into the hallway, sauntered down the
corridor with the bare and unmarked walls, entered my friend Caleb’s room, and fell upon
his bed, crying. He seemed rather taken-aback, and he sat beside me as I wept.
“I like her so much,” I sobbed. “Why did this have to happen?”
“I don’t know, Man,” Caleb told me; “I don’t know.”
The next couple weeks were filled with my struggles to understand what had
happened—but every possible answer turned into a pseudo-answer. On the day she broke
up with me, I wrote this in my journal:
Today hasn’t been such a good day. In fact, in all reality, today was probably
the worst day I’ve had in a few years. It all started out great. I woke up with
a smile on my face and headed out the door. I sat beside Mandy in ACTS
class, and she seemed a little distant; something didn’t rest right with her.
She was quiet throughout the rest of the morning, but I didn’t think too
much of it. “She’s just tired.” Around 1:00 P.M., she sent me a text message
that pretty much said that she didn’t want to date at all. She’d changed her
mind about the whole thing.
The fact that she “changed her mind” because she liked someone else more
hurts. The fact that I thought that there was something special brewing,
then shown that I was wrong, hurts. But that’s not what hurts the most.
What hurts the most is that for five years, I’ve desired romance. I’ve desired
to share in one of those special relationships. I have struggled and cried in
my cravings to treat a girl right and to love her with real, action-oriented
love, and all along I have had to watch as my friends abandoned me for
their girlfriends; on top of that, I have been forced to watch good girls be
turned into whores at the hands of boys who treat them as sex-toys, using
and abusing them. It makes me angry that God will let them get away with
it but won’t let me treat a girl right. For five years I’ve prayed that my fate
ANTHONY BARNHART
would change, that things would change. Without this romance, I feel
empty, hollow, incomplete, and it hurts. I am made for this kind of
relationship. It’s how God has designed me. For five years I’ve prayed for
this, and beginning in October, I thought God was beginning to act.
It really, truly hurts me. As I drove home to visit my family, I wept. I wept
because I don’t understand why God makes me like this, makes it to where I
hurt when I am alone. I wept because I don’t understand why He would
make me like this and then seemingly abandon me to suffer. I wept because
I don’t understand why he put Mandy into my life, gave me sweet tastes of
what I have always desired, then tore her away or at least allowed her to be
torn away at the last moment, only increasing my sufferings. Yesterday I
wept tears of joy; today I weep tears of sorrow.
This served as the beginning of a long struggle with my theology of God, with His
character and nature, and with my journey with Him. Through all my years of being raised
in the church, I had it hounded into me: God is affectionate towards you, God is proud of you,
God really cares about you, God wants you to be happy, God wants to bless you. In the month of
December, following that fateful day on December 5, my struggles truly began. This was
the first time I really questioned what I had been taught: “Does God really care about me?
Does He really want me to be happy?” My roommate John said, “Of course He cares about
you, Man. She wasn’t right for you. God knows that. He has someone better for you,
someone far better suited for you than Mandy.”
I swallowed what he told me and continued about my life. In a month or so I had
moved on, and the pain didn’t make itself so evident anymore—not until spring break, at
least, in March of 2006, during my freshman year of college. I went to my grandma’s house
in Kentucky that week, and I spent a lot of time praying and contemplating about things
with God and my desire for a family. “God,” I said, “You know this is something I really,
really, really want. You know I’m not just doing this for totally selfish reasons. I don’t want a
wife just so I can have sex with her without sinning. You know that I look round about this
universe and see girls being used and abused and taken-advantage-of, and You know how
much this breaks my heart. You know what I desire so strongly—to show a girl how much
I love her, how much I care for her. I want to treat her like the princess she is. But, God, I’m
wondering if You’ll ever bring me to this girl!” All the time alone at my grandma’s house
chewed away at me; she could see the pain in my face but was afraid to say anything. In
my prayers I continued, “God… Are you really going to bring this girl to me? Or will I
always be hurting? God, I want to believe that You have someone for me. I mean, I really
want to believe that. I’m not asking for much tonight, God. Not much at all. But please, if
you could, please just let me see her.” When I went to bed a few hours later, exhausted from
a day running around with my grandma and from fighting a whole array of emotional
battles, I had no idea that God would reveal her to me.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I tossed and turned all night long, my thoughts a war-torn mess. More than
once I mentally cried out to God for clarity: “You’re telling me something, I
know it, but I’m not seeing it!” The confusion continued unabated, a jigsaw
puzzle being shaken around inside the box—then, suddenly, I saw the “big
picture,” the puzzle pieces coming together before me.
It was her.
All of my confusion and suffering and questions fell away, replaced with an
indescribable joy I cannot put into words. I felt the peace of God come over
me. I didn’t see her in the sense of the tone of her skin, the color of her eyes,
the sweetness of her laughter. No, I saw that part of her that was hidden
behind the flesh; I saw her true beauty. I saw her love, her care, her
compassion; I saw her selflessness, her humility, her peace; I saw her joy, the
Life within her; and I saw her passion for the Divine.
“How long?” my soul cries out. No reply of when, simply: “Trust in Me.
Hope in Me. Wait—and watch!” My cry of lament evolves into praise,
praising the One who will bring this girl to me, a girl with whom I can share
the sufferings and joys of life.
As I sit here at my laptop, I struggle to find the words to describe the emotions that
ran through me. The best words I can employ is an “emotional high.” An elation of sorts.
God had answered my prayer. I didn’t see a face, didn’t get a name, but I had seen “her”
true beauty: the character within. As I lied in bed that night, my heart pounded in
excitement. “How long?” I asked God. “You’ve shown me this beautiful, wonderful,
excellent, and mesmerizing girl… But how long?” I didn’t get a response to that question
(my God loves mystery). As a human creature, however, in a few days doubt crept in, and I
found myself once again locked in the rut of borderline despair. I am sure it frustrates God
when we come to forget what He has shown us, but we are so ample to do so. Near the end
of spring break, as I paced about the room in my grandma’s house, the sun coming in
through large bay windows and cardinals tramping about on the front lawn, I prayed,
“God, do you really have someone out there for me, is all of this left open to blind, random
chance?” And in that moment He spoke to me. I cannot tell you how so much; it was not an
audible voice, but it was extremely different from something my imagination would
concoct. I can remember that moment with such vibrance, with such intensity; I believe
God speaks to His children in a myriad of ways, but I remember only three times He has
spoken to me, and this was one of them. He said:
“I have given you these desires [to be a good husband and a good father]
for a reason. There is a girl, one of My children, who is hurting and aching.
She desires true love and fears she will never find it in this world of twisted-
love. I have chosen you to be Me to her—to love her with a selfless, serving,
ANTHONY BARNHART
and sacrificial love. I have a beautiful plan for you and for her. She will
bring comfort and completion to your heart, and you will deliver comfort
and completion to hers.”
But a problem arose. I hold to the belief that God does not always choose certain
pathways for our lives. In a lot of Christian circles, it is widely believed (often based upon
proof-texting, or pulling scripture out-of-context and spinning it with one’s own
interpretations) that God has our every move traced on some cosmic map or blueprint in
the heavens. When people come to me and ask for guidance in choosing a school or
choosing a career, I tell them, “Do what you want to do, and honor God through that.” I
believe that the “will of God” boils down to three concise actions: believing in His Son
(with the ingredients of faith and repentance thrown into the mix), pursuing a life of
holiness (or right living in the eyes of God), and evangelism (or, simply, expressing the
gospel to those we come into contact with). I believe that when a person is a Christian,
pursues a life of holiness (though failing often, for we are all human, as the saying goes,
and God knows we are made of dirt), and when a person reaches out to others and invites
them into the Christian life (the life of intimacy with God and co-laboring with God for the
betterment of the world), then we are in the will of God. With all of that said, a necessary
conclusion is that God doesn’t care who we marry, and that it’s pretty much up to us. As
long as we’re abiding in His three-fold will, then we’re doing quite fine! This proved to be
quite the struggle for me as I chewed over what God had told me. God had said, unless I
am mistaken in my interpretation of His words (being human, this is quite possible): “I
have chosen someone for you, and I will bring you two together.” It was, seemingly, an
unconditional statement.
I expressed the inaudible voice of God to my little sister Amber one day as we flipped
through the channels on the television, and her face burst with a radiant glow. “Anthony!
That’s so exciting! I’ve been praying for you!” I told her about the dream I’d had several
weeks earlier, and she shouted, “Anth! Why didn’t you tell me about?!” I had just shrugged
it off.
I told her, “I feel like God has told me that He has someone special for me, but I’m not
sure if that’s really how it works.”
“Okay…”
“I mean, does God really choose a ‘soul-mate’ for us? What do you think?”
“You mean is our marriage partner predestined, or are we left to our own wisdom and
devices and good or bad luck to find someone to marry?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Well, I believe God can do whatever He wants, you know? If God told that He has
someone for you, then He does. You know what your problem is, sometimes?” Don’t you
love how little sisters can be so blunt sometimes? “You don’t trust God. I mean, you do…
But you question everything. God told you He has someone for you, and it excites you, but
you doubt it. Now, I’m not calling your faith into question here, don’t misread what I’m
saying, but, Anth, honestly: are you going to ‘box in’ God with your ‘theology,’ whatever it
may be?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“But look at all the Christians in bad marriages!”

“Marriage isn’t easy! You’re going to have to work at it.”
“But Christians are married and not even happy! Did God want them to be miserable
together?”
“Let’s say that God does not have a ‘special someone’ for everybody. Okay. Does that
mean, by necessity, that He has no one for you? No, not at all. I don’t believe God decides
everything that we do say and do, but I do believe that He has wills for our lives. Doesn’t
the Bible say that God wants some people to be preachers, others teacher, blah-blah-blah?”
“That didn’t sound heretical,” I muttered.
“My point is this, Anthony: from the day you first became a Christian, you’ve felt that
one of God’s desires for you is to be a good husband and a good father, right?” A nod from
my direction prodded her on. “Well, if this is true, and I think it is, then God has a special
will for your life, and He’ll bring it to pass in His own timing. I mean, look at it biblically
for a minute, okay? There are stories where God chose peoples’ spouses. You have Isaac
and Rebecca. You have the prophet Hosea and his wife Gomer. Those are just a few
examples, but do you see what I’m saying?”
“Yeah.”
“Does God choose everyone’s spouses? The Bible doesn’t tell us that. I don’t think so.”
“Me neither.”
“But the Bible does tell us that God brought some married couples together. Can He do
it again? I don’t see why not. Maybe that’s what He’s doing with you.” A pause. “Can you
be entirely honest with me?” I nodded. “Do you really believe that God told you that He
has someone special for you?”
“Yes,” I replied, without a moment’s hesitation.
She smiled. “If it truly was His voice, then you have nothing to worry about.”
“But what if I mess it up?”
She thought over it for a minute. “I don’t think you can. Think about it: God knows
everything, right?”
“Yeah. He’s omniscient.”
“Whatever. I don’t know the big words. But God knows the mistakes you’re going to
make, the mistakes you made, even the mistakes you’re making. He knows what your life
has in store for you. And He’s given you His word. He’s already taken into account what
will happen. He has it all under control.”
“It’s His providence.”
She rolled her eyes. “Anthony. Seriously. Stop with the big words.”
“Sorry.”
“You probably don’t even know what they mean. You just want to look smart.”
“Are you done?”
“No. I have another point: since God knows everything that is going to happen—His
omni-sense or whatever—then He knows the mistakes you’re going to make. If it looks like
you’ve messed things up, just take a deep breath and remember this: God knows what He is
doing, and He’s given you His word. Sometimes God will make everything ‘go to hell’ before
He comes through on His promises… Just so we can’t explain it away by human terms, you
ANTHONY BARNHART
know?” I nodded. “So don’t worry about it. Just live your life. Let God work everything
out. It’ll all be okay.”
One Sunday, when I expressed what God had told me, one of my friends turned on
the defensive. “Listen to what the Apostle Paul tells us: it is better to be single. Girls are just
a distraction. It’s better for you not to be with a girl.” I tried to explain that he and I had
different God-implanted desires, but he refused to budge. “You think God told you that she
will bring comfort and completing to your heart? Listen to me: God is the only one who can
bring us total and complete comfort.” I tried to explain that he was understanding God’s
words in a way I had not perceived, and I tried to tell him that God made man and woman
to complement each other, but he would have none of it. So I just changed the conversation,
though his words rattled me a little bit. Doubt sank in, but I fought it. I wrote a rebuttal to
his statements in my journal:
I want to find a woman, and I want to be naked with her emotionally,

spiritually, mentally, holistically. I want us both to be innocent and
passionate, not ashamed to see and be seen, to know and be known, to need
and be needed, to want and enjoy each other. I know it's not all about sex.
Sex is a side-note, a blessing in itself, but it is not the epicenter. The
epicenter of romance, from which everything--including sex--flows, is a
holistic communion and belonging between two people of different sex
created by a real and passionate God, completing each other and forming
one person.
There are lots of worship songs out there with the lyrics, "You are enough
for me, Jesus." And technically, He is enough. But for the full enjoyment of
life, as God made it to be lived, there is within us a deep and implanted
desire that tells us, almost blasphemously, "God may not be enough." And
this feeling has always drawn up deep wells of pain, convincing me that I
have fallen short of the dedication I need for God. But when I look at the
creation story in Genesis 2, I see that God created woman because Adam
was incomplete without God. It wasn’t that God was inefficient; it was that
God created Adam to need Eve.
We were not designed to be alone. Sometimes the message we get--or at

least the message I've often gotten--is that we who are passionate about God
shouldn't worry about the opposite sex, shouldn't worry about romance.
But Genesis--the beginning of the Story!--seems to say otherwise. I believe
that romance in the Kingdom of God is beautiful, wonderful, transcendent,
holistic. This is the romance in which I so strongly desire to engage. I was
created for Woman. Woman was created for me. We are meant to be
together, and there is nothing wrong at all with having a strong desire for
romance. It is a part of being a worshipper and follower of God.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I'm not going to obsess over girls. All that brings is heartache, depression,
and anxiety. No, I've been content over the last week or two to just live my
life, building relationships as they come. If I sense something romantic
evolving in my relationship with a girl, I will pursue it, for better or worse. I
wholly believe there is a 'girl' out there for me; it is not something I can
biblically prove, but it is what God has been telling me for the past four to
five years. This is no excuse to hole up and expect a girl to fall in my lap, but
I'm not going to lose sleep over combing the campus grounds for the "one."
God will bring her to me; I will be attracted to her, she will be attracted to
me, and with God's help, we will engage in romance for the rest of our lives.
It may take a few different dates with different, wonderful girls, but I
believe I will be there someday, and my wife and I will grow a family in a
small house and we will worship, serve, and pursue the King together.
I wish I could tell you that from that point onward, life was clear and made lots of
sense. However, as I’m sure any knowledgeable human knows, that is never quite the case.
In fact, such an event would be an exception. Though my post was written with absolute
sincerity and hopefulness, I soon became weighed down my the pressures of the dream
strangling me as I studied for my final exams my spring semester at Cincinnati Christian
University. I would often take long breaks to Mt. Echo, walking through the woods and
contemplating life in all its confusion. I would sit on that rotten log, or on the bridge
passing over the creek, or I would walk down along the dried creek-bed and admire the
sun coming in between the trees, warming my arms and face as dusk approached. Those
were peaceful times for the most part, but something groaned inwards within me. My
dream seemed to become farther and farther detached from me. I felt as if life was a sieve,
time was the sand, and life was draining time from my fingertips. Each day alone—each
day without “her”—was another day of angst and pain, another day I would never
experience the warmth of her fond embrace.
When exams finally concluded, I packed up my bags, said goodbye to my college
friends for three months, and headed home to embrace a life of working 6 a.m. to 2 p.m.
Monday-thru-Friday for a moving company. I didn’t know that the summer would prove
to be one of the most difficult summers for me emotionally, and I didn’t have any idea that
it would be the uphill climb of a 10-month rollercoaster ride that would lead down into the
depths of despair and back up to the heights of hope. On the first day of vacation, I
scribbled in my journal, pulling together my loneliness and hopelessness and the great
fears that began to gnaw away at me as my sophomore summer began.
I am so terrified of being alone.
I am afraid that I will never taste the sweet romance that I so strongly
desire.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I know God will take care of me. He has a history of taking care of me, you
know? He hasn’t failed me yet. He is a Good and Faithful God. I have a
feeling that things are going to start getting hard, but I am going to just trust
God and get through it. How hard, really, can things get?
I had no idea how much my life would change over the next few months.
This is my story.
ANTHONY BARNHART
CHAPTER TWO
The Taste of a Dream
“When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you
burnt my mouth with its sweetness.” (Amy Lowell)
THE BEGINNING OF THE SAGA
While the bulk of my story does not really begin until the end of 2006 and on through 2007,
it would be a grave error for me to just pick up on that traumatic day in October. My story
truly begins during the summer of 2006, immediately following my first year of college in
Cincinnati. It was on the frontier of my hometown—Springboro, Ohio, a place laden with
hole-in-the-wall shops, superstores, and an abundance of wealthy citizens (of which my
family did not partake)—that my story draws its first breath. All of the years preceding this
summer were the birth-pains, whispers of what was to come, and the mother of my
suffering—and its subsequent transformation—gave birth in the summer of 2006. It was
that summer when my sufferings lay in the cradle, warmed by electric lights and wrapped
in blankets, completely unknowing the horrors, terrors, and agonies that life had in store
for me. As I lied in that bed, smiling up at the stars, I had no idea what would transpire.
That cradle cocooned me from the real world, and I lived in a sweet ignorance of that
which would come. So let me tell you about my ignorance; her name is Sammy. But first I
want you to get to know me a little bit.
My summer began in monotony. I worked a full-time job moving boxes with a
construction company. The pay was good, but the hours were excruciating: 6 a.m. to 2 p.m.
Monday thru Friday. I never did like manual labor, but the upside became clear: I lost five
pounds in the first week, primarily because of a heat wave that had swept through. We had
been moving boxes and furniture into and out of semi trailers that acted as insulating
tombs of heat, 100-degrees-plus temperatures causing sweat to cascade down my face and
burn my eyes. I spent my afternoons after work sleeping on the leather couch in the living
room, my golden retriever Doogie next to me, chewing on bones and wagging his tail as I
stroked his back in a half-asleep trance. After I had slept, I would take a shower and
usually go to STARBUCKS, the hangout spot in my hometown. No matter when I went, I
would usually find random friends. Purchasing a coffee (preferably a caramel macchiato), I
would sit out on the curb, mingling with people of all walks of life. We played guitars and
smoked cigarettes late into the night. I became addicted to CAMEL LIGHT 100S, and I smoked
approximately one pack every two weeks. Sometimes I would return to Cincinnati, where I
had finished my freshman year of college, and visit a friend who owned his own
apartment. He introduced me to DJARUM CLOVE cigarettes, and when I brought them to
ANTHONY BARNHART
STARBUCKS, they attracted a flock of admirers dying to try them. “They taste like
Thanksgiving and Christmas!” they would exclaim. We would sit and laugh and talk about
philosophy; being a lover of ancient history, primarily during the days of Jesus, I debated a
lot about stoicism, Epicureanism, and cynicism, and the ways St. Paul utilized these
philosophies of the day to explain theological truths to the Christians in the ancient Greco-
Roman world. A deep and searing restlessness brewed within me.
“Everything’s so boring, everyone’s so fake, everyone’s so empty, and the
world is so messed up.” The cryptic echoes of PUDDLE OF MUD refrain over
and over within my mind, dribbling down throughout the rest of my body,
weighing heavy upon my heart. Yesterday as I sat and started at everyone
on the patio at STARBUCKS, I felt a great weight come over me. I looked at their
faces and felt a certain… emptiness. Life isn’t meant to be this way. I dare to
believe that a new way of life is possible, that things don’t have to be this
way. I am a dreamer, this I know. I look at the faces in the sea around me,
and I see a host of diseases: futility, vanity, hopelessness, resignation. I find
myself unable to capitulate into words the feelings within me. I feel entirely
restless, and I am afraid it is a restlessness that may lead to resignation.
However, I stand against this and declare that that shall not happen.
THE QUIET STORM RAGING WITHIN ME
Yet despite these mellow conversations that sparked excitement in a mind as studious as
mine, something deep within me cried out silently in the night. I wore a mask of
contentment and a veil of satisfaction over my façade. My friends and family thought
everything was going well, but those close to me began to realize that something just didn’t
“feel” right. My little sister—a senior in high school—first approached me in June of that
year. We were driving to BORDERS (where I hoped to purchase St. Augustine’s Confessions)
when she asked, “What’s wrong with you lately? You haven’t been yourself lately.”
I played her off. “I’m fine.”
“Anthony. I know you’re not fine. Your eyes are so… depressed.”
I looked at her and grinned. “See? I’m smiling.”
“Your eyes aren’t smiling.” Everyone—especially girls—know that a smile concocted
by a twisting of the muscles can lie, but no one can lie through their eyes. How does the
saying go? ‘The eyes are the windows of the soul’ I believe? Amber saw in my eyes that
something was wrong.
It was on that drive that I decided to open up and bear my soul… something painful
and, at times, embarrassing.
I was silent for the longest time. As we rolled to a stop at a stoplight, Amber said,
“Anthony. What’s wrong? You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone. Please? Pretty please?” She
didn’t know that I had already decided to tell her, and that I was forming an answer in my
head. She put on her baby face to try and provoke answers from me, not understanding
ANTHONY BARNHART
that it was entirely unnecessary. She continued with the baby face; I let her wallow in her
pointless efforts, then I broke the silence as I accelerated the JEEP once more:
“I’m slowly killing myself, Amber. You know how much I smoke. The cigarettes, you
know why I like them so much?” I looked over and saw her shake her head. “They calm
me and offer some sort of escape from my boring, meaningless, hopeless, and mundane
existence.” If I did not believe in God, I would kill myself. That thought, as it charged its way
across the wires of my brain, frightened me. I quickly recuperated: “My disappointment
with life is unparalleled. I… detest… the lot I’ve been thrown, the things I struggle with,
the way God is so silent, so hidden, so… unfair. How can I be content when God has
designed me one way and then given me the absolute opposite existence? I want to start
my life over. I want to leave this wretched existence, this wretched past, behind. I feel so
totally, utterly hopeless.”
My sister sat there an eternity, not knowing what to say.
Propelled by awkwardness, I blurted, “I’m sorry, I just-’’
“No. I knew something was wrong. What did you mean by God designing you one
way and then giving you the opposite thing?”
“Love. I want to love and be loved. Romantically. It’s really that simple. You know
what my greatest dream is?”
“To be a teacher,” she said matter-of-factly.
“No,” I said. “It’s-’’
“But that’s what you tell people.”
“It’s what I tell people, because…” I trailed off, unable to find a reason. Was it because
I was insecure, because I thought such a dream as the one I truly had was unattainable for
someone such as myself? I said, “Anyways, my greatest dream is to be a good husband and
a good father. I look around and I see wives and children being used and abused, taken
advantage-of, treated poorly and disrespectfully. It angers me so much. I see girls throwing
themselves at boys who profess, ‘I love you’ only so they can fondle and grope them,
squeezing innocence from them in a sub-class of rape. Beautiful girls—princesses—turned
into hollow shells because of the abuse they’ve endured. I want to find a girl and love her
unconditionally and with everything I am. I want to give her the world.”
We pulled into BORDERS by the DAYTON MALL. As I scanned the parking lot for an open
space, she said, “And that makes you depressed?”
“I don’t have what girls want, Ams. I don’t have great looks, a suave sophistication. I
don’t have what it takes.”
“What?!” she exclaimed. “Anthony! You’re amazing. Some girl is going to be so very
lucky. You’re a girl’s dream come true.”
“Then why aren’t girls flocking to my side?” I asked. “Why aren’t they making
themselves present?” A pause: “Oh, here’s one,” I said, pulling into a space. As we got out, I
told her to lock her door. I shut my door and walked to the rear of the JEEP, waiting for
Amber to catch up, then walking beside her towards BORDERS’ front entrance, I continued,
“It’s depressing because I want something so badly, and I want it for pure, good reasons…
But the deck is stacked against me.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“You think it’s stacked against you,” she said. “God has a girl for you. And she’ll think
you’re adorable.”
I found that laughable. Cynicism boiled in my veins.
As we got to the entrance, Amber turned and hugged me, burying her face into my
chest. “Well, I think you’re lovable. You’re the best big brother in the world!” she exclaimed,
looking up at me with her adorable brown eyes. My sister is as beautiful as an angel
descended from the highest ranks of the heavenly orchestras. “You’re going to be some
lucky girl’s teddy bear one day.” She pulled away, put her hands on my shoulders, and
looked straight into my eyes: “God has someone for you. He wouldn’t have given you such
strong desires if He didn’t have a purpose for them. It’d be a waste. I don’t know who she
is, but God knows exactly what she wants, and He’s made you so that you fit what she
wants. And I think it will be the same the other way, too: God knows what you want, and
so God’s made her like you want her. She’ll blow you away. You just have to be patient.”
“Patience is so hard,” I groaned. “I’ve been waiting… and praying… and praying… for
so long.”
“Love is patient.”
“Can we try not to be cliché?” I joked.
She removed her hands. “Just trying to help. Gosh.”
“I was kidding.” As we walked into the bookstore, “And thanks.”
Our conversation helped… but only momentarily. It felt good to finally unleash some of the
emotions I had been going through. It was not long into summer, though, that I hit a bout
of depression, finding it difficult to rise in the morning and difficult to sleep at night. I
would often come home from work and just sit in my room, staring at the wall, lost in a
cesspool of naïve thoughts. I let the dream consume me, and then I proceeded to consume
the dream, tearing it apart and entering into the realms of the stoic philosophers:
“Everything is predetermined. Everything is left up to fate. What is the point of dreams?
Whether or not we can attain them is outside of our control. We are powerless. We must
embrace what we have with as little emotion as possible.”
I saw dreams as thus: taking our hands, grasping the mire and clay, and letting our
desires and imaginations and hopes lead us to fashion that which promises—in hidden
shadows—to deliver us unto redemption. We breathe life into our naïve creations, hoping
our creations will bring us what our hearts long for. Yet while we are its creator, its tamer,
we bend down and submit to its lashings and blows. The creation takes chains and snaps
them upon our ankles and wrists; we do not resist, for this enslaving demon cracks a
wicked smile and crackles, “My name is Hope.” And so we find ourselves stripped naked,
dragged through the mud, humiliated before the world, beaten and bloodied and scourged
—our skin rips, our bones snap, our tendons shatter, and our chests heave in agonizing
sobs of despair riddled with malicious whispers of hope. And here is the unimaginable
thing: while we hold the keys to the chains, we continue to bow down before this devilish
creation we made out of our blood-soaked hands! We are willfully dragged through the
thorn-beds, scratched raw, broken emotionally, physically, spiritually, and mentally.
“How can we be so blind?” I had no idea.
ANTHONY BARNHART
“How can we be so ignorant?” I had no idea.

“How can we be so naïve?” I had no idea.
But then revelation comes. As I spent many hours staring at the wall in my bedroom,
reflecting on all that had come and continued to come, I began to perceive that the world
may not have been as I’d always perceived it. As I opened my mind, I began to suspect that
I was living a lie, quietly putting my hope in a fate that would never come. Somehow, in
some ways, our souls are opened to the bitter truth: we see the devil leading us on with his
blood-stained whip, we feel the sharp iron on our wrists and ankles rubbing our skin raw,
and suddenly we hear our aching body crying out in protest to this awful enslavement. We
discover the keys lie in our hands, so we unchain the clasps and shackles binding our
wrists and ankles, we lift ourselves up out of the thorn-beds and mud-patches, we wash
and bandage our wounds, and we face the horizon. There is a deep sense of remorse within
us—“We have been living a lie!”—but also a sense of liberation—“There is a new and
vibrant and real life in front of me.”
And so those haunting demons—those dreams that enslaved us, suffocated us,
strangled us, and beat us—whisper in our ears, “Let us back in,” but we fight against their
conniving lies: “The world is not our friend,” we say; “We were naïve, ignorant, and full of
false hopes, aspirations, and dreams. We have embraced reality, and in it we find freedom.”
We scream before the face of dreams, “We will not bow down to your yoke of slavery any
longer!” Zeno, the founder of stoicism, would be proud. Perhaps he would have even
invited me to study at his feet and teach my ideas from the front porches throughout the
Greco-Roman world.
But he would not see that despite this detachment I embraced, the suffering never
vanished.
Dream or no dream, hope or no hope… I still cried at night.
Amber became my confidant. I confessed to her everything. One Friday night I stood out
on the deck behind the house, smoking a CAMEL 100, admiring the smell of the smoke rising
up into the brilliantly-clear night sky. Amber came out and joined me after my parents had
gone to bed. She pulled out her own pack and lit up a MARLBORO. I eyed her. “Do you really
want to become like me? I hate being addicted. It’s not something you want.”
“I only have, like, one a week. I’m not like you.”
“Good,” I said.
There was silence for a little while.
She leaned against the wooden rail, took a drag, gazed up at the stars, asked, “So…
How’s it going?”
“It’s going well,” I said lamely.
“You’re such a bad liar. Your wife’s going to catch you every time.”
I tossed the cigarette into the grass. “You know what I’m afraid of, Ams? I’m afraid of
being alone. This fears, it haunts me… consumes me… day-in and day-out. It judges and
liquidates my every move. I fear, so badly, never having anyone. I fear growing old, cold,
alone, never tasting love, and dying alone and forgotten in hospice.” Whitewashed tombs
where they take people who should already be dead. I shivered at the thought.
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Anthony. Calm down. That’s not going to happen.”

“I am so afraid I will never taste the kiss of a girl, the warmth of her body close. I fear
that I’ll never be the focus of sparkling eyes and a tender touch. Shy smiles in my direction.
I fear never being loved, only watching others parade in fashion as I hunger, thirst, and cry
in my own silence.”
“Anthony. That’s an irrational fear. You’re a good guy. You’re going to find love.”
“You can’t rationalize these things away,” I told her, looking her in the eyes. “Can I
have a MARLBORO?” She tossed me one. I lit it up and continued. “You can’t ‘rationalize’ this
fear away. It’s like the fear of snakes or spiders. You can’t tell someone, ‘Oh, don’t be
frightened, there’s no reason for you to be scared.’ It doesn’t work that way. Same with me.
You can stand on this deck and smoke that cigarette and tell me how irrational my fear is,
but it won’t change anything. I’ll still lie awake at night. My life history backs up this
accusation: ‘No one wants you, and all who might are taken from you.’ I am left alone,
unwanted, watching my friends and their girls, always being the third or fifth or seventh
wheel. For so long I’ve lain alone at home in my bed as my friends went out with all those
who shared affection.”
She blew out a breath of smoke. “What do you mean ‘life experiences’?”
“I mean all the things I’ve been through.”
“You’ve had it pretty easy, though.” Her face fell as she realized the arrogance of her
statement.
She tried to throw in a disclaimer, but I cut her off. “No, it’s fine. It’s just… I don’t
know. Never mind.”
“Nope. You brought it up.”
I sighed. It’s hard to argue against your best friend. “You know about my junior high
years, right?” She nodded. “You know how I was always the ‘rejected’ kid, right?”
“That’s because you were so quiet. You didn’t make an effort to make friends.”
“I didn’t make an effort to make friends because when I did, I was always rejected.
Laughed-at, mocked, you name it. Made fun-of. No one liked me. I just kept to myself, and
the kids made fun of me. I remember all these events from my junior high years. I
remember sitting along at lunch surrounded by kids laughing and talking, the entire time
my eyes welling up with tears that I fought to keep down. Maybe that’s why crying—or
just showing emotion, for that matter—is so difficult for me: I’ve gotten so accustomed to
hiding my pain that I can’t function correctly and let it out when I should.”
She was quiet. “You never told me that.”
I flicked some ash off of the cigarette. “I remember sitting in class when the teacher
walked out, and the ‘popular kids’ would throw stuff at me and steal my pencils. I wanted
to cry because I wanted friends—I wanted to be appreciated and accepted—but I couldn’t
let down my guard.”
“I’m so sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.
I rambled: “Gym class was the worst. I remember being picked last for dodge-ball,
even though I was good. You know why they wouldn’t pick me? I know: I was ‘unpopular.’
You don’t want to taint a team with unpopular kids. I remember basketball kids doing
dribbles around me in a circle. It broke my heart.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Amber threw away her cigarette. “Junior high kids are all a bunch of assholes.”
“Nevertheless, it happened. And it hurt. Things didn’t get easier in my high school
years, either. I had a crush on a girl for three years. Krissie, remember?” She nodded. “We
became great friends. Eventually I asked her to be my girlfriend-’’
“I know this story,” she interrupted. “She told you that if you dated, it’d have to be a
secret.”
“Right. And then she said she would date me only if I would build more muscle. I
needed to be athletic to be enough for her.”
“She was immature and a jerk. She’s not good enough for you.”
“A few days later, she went off with my best friend.”
“That’s his mistake, not yours,” she said. “You don’t still like her, do you?”
“What?! No! I promise. But I remember what happened. Vividly. I can remember the
shirt she was wearing. What she said to me that day… It’s stenciled into me, it affects and
plagues and diseases my every action and thought and feeling. And on top of the whole
Krissie ordeal, I experienced rejection in high school. I sat alone a lot. I didn’t have friends
in most of my classes. I figured that when I got to college, things would be better. And they
were—kind of. I made a lot of amazing friends, but I ran through a gauntlet of girls. The
first one was Mandy.”
“I remember when you brought her home. She wasn’t pretty enough for you.”
“Ams. That was shallow.”
She opened her arms. “I’m just talking here.”
“Mandy and I hung out all the time. She took me to her place in Indiana for the
weekend. I remember meeting her family, her friends, her adorable little sister. We cuddled
in the chair and talked late into the night. We fell asleep in the same bed. When I woke up, I
felt like all my prayers for romance had been answered. The next day she heard a rumor
that another guy liked her, so she dropped me like a bad habit. She completely cut off ties
with me.”
“And thank God she did,” Amber muttered. “What is she doing now?”
“She’s in a circus.”
“What’s her job?”
“She sleeps around with the carnies.”
“Anth. Think about that. Let it sink in. Do you really think you weren’t good enough
for her?”
“We all have dark skeletons in our closets.”
“Yeah. Being a circus prostitute isn’t really that big a deal.”
I rolled my eyes and turned to face her. “You’re missing the forest for the trees.”
“Show me the forest, then.”
“All of these… events… imbedded themselves in my mind. I’ve been carrying around
emotional baggage for as long as I can remember. Hidden messages assail me: ‘Once
people get to know me, they won’t want to have anything to do with me. Don’t be yourself,
because then no one will love you. You’ll need to completely change in order to be loved.’
And, ‘I’ll never be in a romantic relationship with a girl because girls don’t like who I am,
they don’t like the way they look, and they’d rather date my friends then date me.’ Kristen
ANTHONY BARNHART
went after Tyler. Mandy went after Dan. I mean, the next girl I meet will probably end up
with another one of my friends!”
“Anth. You can’t think like that. All those thoughts are stupid and wrong.”
“But they feel so right.”
“Just don’t listen to them.”
“I can’t control them. They’re not, like, audible thoughts. They’re deep down, in my
heart. It’s what I believe to be true.”
“Then you’re believing a lie.”
We stood in silence for a little while. I spoke up: “It’s just so hard, Amber.”
“I know,” she said. “I know.”
“All of my friends here have significant others. Lee has Chelsea. Patrick has Ashlie.
Dewenter has Courtney. Chris has Jessica. You have Luke. And where am I? Where I’ve
always been. Forgive me for being a pessimist, but I’m just looking at my life experiences
and forming my own philosophy or ideology of life.”
“Having a girlfriend doesn’t complete you. Luke doesn’t complete me.”
I didn’t say anything, just stood there and lit another cigarette. The smoke calmed me.
Amber walked forward and hugged me. “It will be okay. You hear me?”
“I have prayed and prayed and prayed. Is God going to answer my prayer for
romance? Why does He let bad boys use and abuse girls, while those who want to treat
girls right are left out in the cold, hearts aching and longing? I feel like God has given me
this desire, then abandoned me.”
“He hasn’t abandoned you, Anthony. Don’t think like that.”
“I know, I know. I just don’t want to… hurt… so much… all the time.”
“Maybe He knows that you’re so genuine and authentic and godly in your desires that
He has someone special reserved for you.”
“Or I’ve just struck an unlucky bone.” The cigarette butt began to smolder. I tossed it
onto the deck and stomped it underfoot. I looked up once more at the stars. God, please. I’ve
been pretty damned persistent. I’m just waiting here. I’m serving You. I’m obeying You. I’m not
perfect, I have no bargaining tools with You. But You know all things, and You know how much I
hurt. Please… Deliver me. Bring her to me soon. And if it’s not that time yet, then please deliver me
from this pain… somehow. “I’m going inside,” I told Amber. “You coming in?”
“I’ll stay out here,” she said. “Have one more.” She nodded to the MARLBORO pack in
her hands. “If that’s okay.”
“Your lungs,” I said, going inside.
AN INNOCENT NIGHT AT STARBUCKS
When July 4th weekend came around, I had work off on Monday. I spent Sunday night at
STARBUCKS. I ate dinner at WAFFLE HOUSE around 2:30 a.m., then drove my JEEP to STARBUCKS just
down the street. I went inside, the aromas of Peruvian, Ethiopian, and Sumatran coffee
blends invading me. I stopped for a moment in the entrance, closed my eyes, and let the
ANTHONY BARNHART
smells consume me. When I opened my eyes, I saw that the coffeehouse was nearly empty.
A businessman sat in the corner, a student listening to an IPOD at the other end of the
establishment. I approached the front counter and rang the bell for service.
A girl came around the corner, a few inches taller than me with curly blond hair
falling to her shoulders. She smiled at me behind deep-set blue eyes. “What can I get for
you?” she asked.
“How about a spiced chai tea?” I asked. “With a shot of hazelnut.”
She smiled. A wonderful smile. “No problem.”
I pulled out my wallet to fish out some money.
She protested. “No, the drink is on me.”
I eyed her for a moment. A joke? “Are you serious?”
She laughed. “Yeah. I mean, unless you want to pay for it, I mean.”
“I mean, if you’re offering.”
“Okay,” she said, laughing again. “Just give me a minute.” She began making the
drink.
I walked around to the receiving end of the counter, inspecting the various spices one
could add to the drink. “Do you guys have any honey? Honey in chai tea is the best.”
“I can get you some,” she said as she steamed the milk. “You from around here?”
“Yeah,” I said, looking up. Her back was towards me. I did an up-and-down and
mentally smacked myself: Anthony! Stop it! Hormones. Ugh. “I’m home for summer break.
I go to college down in Cincinnati.”
“Really?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. “You don’t look like a college
student.”
“I look younger?”
“Much younger.”
“I’m nineteen,” I said. “I go to C.B.C.”
“My father graduated from there.”
Ironic? “Cincinnati Bible College?”
“Yeah. He got a preaching degree.”
“So you’re a preacher’s daughter?”
She laughed. “No. I mean, that was the plan.” She added the chai mix and hazelnut
shot into the cup, then poured the steamed milk.. “My mother became pregnant with me
on their honeymoon, and the church couldn’t really pay enough for them, so my dad
worked a 40-hour job and preached at the same time. He was so busy all the time that it
strained the family, you know?” A pause. “You want whipped cream?” I shook my head.
She put a lid on the drink, said, “My mom was left with all the housework and with taking
care of me, and he didn’t get to see my mom or me that much. So he resigned from the
church and just worked the 40-hour job. We’re well-off now, and he’s going to return to
preaching when he retires.”
I found myself stumbling for words. I thought, Is she flirting with me? Then, No. She
isn’t flirting. It’s just conversation. We identify. A conflict: But she bought your drink.
“There,” she said, handing it to me.
I looked up at her, having lost myself in my thoughts. Stupid boy.
ANTHONY BARNHART
She smiled. “I hope you like it. It was good meeting you.”
“Thanks. You too.” I walked out of the restaurant, mentally beating myself for being
so stupid. Why couldn’t I think of something smart to say? I need to do some research online
on how to keep up small-talk. Wait: That’s a dumb idea. I sat down on the patio, in one of the
iron chairs, and drew out a clove. I lit up the cigarette and took a deep drag. I let the cloves
fill my lungs and blew them out. The taste of the smoke on my lips mingled well with the
coffee. I sat there for how long I don’t remember, but I closed my eyes and leaned my head
back, blowing the smoke up to the canopy above me.
“Hey.” A voice.
Startled, I almost fell out of the chair.
The baristess laughed. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“No, no, you’re fine,” I said. “It’s just… I wasn’t… expecting that.”
She stood there, the awkwardness growing, and then she quickly said, “Yeah, well,
I’m on break, and it’s burning up in there, so I thought I’d step outside, and I saw you
sitting here, and how is your drink?” Her face burned red, I imagine, from embarrassment,
but I could hardly see it because of the darkness of the night.
I smiled. “It’s good.”
“What’s that in your fingers?”
“A cigarette,” I said, ashamedly. Girls hate smoking.
“I know that,” she said. “I mean what kind?”
“Oh. It’s a DJARUM. Black. Clove.”
“Never heard of it. May I have one?”
“Sure,” I said, pulling out the pack.
She pulled up a seat and sat down. I passed the pack and lighter to her. She drew one
and lit it up. We sat there for a moment, and she asked, “So… What made you come out
here to STARBUCKS in the middle of the night?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “Besides, it’s not like I have much else to do, you know? I
have work off tomorrow, because it’s July 4th weekend.”
“Yeah. I get work off tomorrow, too. Where do you work?”
“I work with a moving company. How about you?”
She laughed, then I burst into laughter.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“People tell me I’m the most awkward person in the world.”
“No, you’re not bad.”
We made small talk for a little while longer. She asked, “What major are you?”
“Biblical studies right now,” I said. “Emphasis in the Old Testament.”
“The Old Testament? Wow.”
I chuckled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No! Nothing bad! I just meant that most Christians like the New Testament more.”
“Well, I’m quite the oddity. I really enjoy ancient history, and I see the Old Testament
as a great narrative. I mean, I see the New Testament—and the whole Bible itself—as a
narrative. When I look at the Old Testament, I see a whole host of smaller narratives fitting
ANTHONY BARNHART
into the context of a larger narrative that-’’ I could see her eyes trailing, and I quickly
apologized: “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”
She shook her head. “No, no. You’re passionate. It’s cute.”
I thought I had misheard, and for a moment I questioned the reality of it.
She leaned forward. “Hello?”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I lost you for a minute.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m just…” I tossed my cigarette. “These things mess with me.”
She grinned. “Okay. Well, look, I have to get back to work.” She pulled out a piece of
paper from her khaki pants and wrote a number down on it. “Give me a call tomorrow,
okay? I mean, if you want to hang out or anything, of course. You’re off work, I’m off work.
It could be fun.”
I had cotton-mouth. “Umm… Yeah. That’d be… Yeah, let’s do that. I’ll call you.” I
stumbled over my words. Stupid Anthony! Stupid Anthony!
She stood. “My name’s Sammy, by the way.”
“Anthony,” I said, nodding towards her.
“Hopefully we’ll see each other tomorrow.” And she turned and walked away.
I drove home shocked at what had happened in less than half an hour. I stood out on the
deck and smoked five or six cigarettes, trying to process the anxiety and the excitement and
the pleasurable chaos sprinting a marathon through my mind. I have a date tomorrow, I
thought. I lied in bed unable to sleep, and the next thing I knew I was awake, reaching for
my jeans. I fished into the pocket to grab the paper with the barista’s phone number on it…
and it was gone. A dream? A great wave of depression came over me. Just a dream. Nothing
but a dream. How depressing.
Amber came into the room. She held up a piece of paper. “What the heck is this?!” Her
eyes glowed wide.
Oh thank God! “You took it from my jeans?!”
“It was sitting on the table downstairs. Who is…” She looked at the paper. “Sammy?”
“She’s a waitress… barista… at STARBUCKS.”
“You got her number?!”
“Yeah. She gave it to me. I didn’t even ask for it.”
“Have you called her yet?”
“No…”
“What?! Call her! Anthony! Are you stupid?! Call her!”
Mom came into the room. “What’s all the yelling about? You’re going to wake your
dad.”
Amber turned. “Anthony has a date!”
Mom glared at me. “Is this true?”
I fumbled for words: “What? No. I mean. Not yet. Kind of.”
She grinned. “Is she cute?” To Amber: “Is she cute?”
Amber said, “I don’t know. I’ve never met the girl.”
“When did you meet her?” Mom asked me. “Church?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“No, at STARBUCKS. Her father went to C.B.C.”

“So you guys are hanging out today?”
“Maybe. It’s not really that big a deal. She probably doesn’t even want to hang out.”
Amber said, “Anth! Girls don’t give guys their numbers if they don’t want them to
call!”
Mom nodded. “Your sister’s right.” She winked as she left my room. “You’d better
call.”
Amber crossed her arms. “So are you going to call?”
“Yeah. I planned on it.”
“Good,” she said with a smile. She jumped up and pumped her arms. “I’m so
excited!”
“No, you’re so weird.”
Now, where was that phone?
JULY 4 WEEKEND
TH
She met me in the parking lot at the Centerville KROGER’S. I arrived ten minutes early,
driving fast because of my burning nerves. I’ve never been on a date before, I kept thinking. I
don’t know how to act, what to say, what to do. Amber had comforted me: “Just be yourself.
Keep the conversation going. Don’t let it die, because then it gets awkward and that’s never
good.” I watched men and women go in and out of the grocery store, most pushing carts,
many laden with young kids tagging along, begging to push the carts. I went over a mental
checklist, making sure I was prepared. I had washed my teeth, shaved, sprayed on
cologne… What kind of car does she drive? I had no idea! If she parked and waited for me to
come over, then I would fail her. Or would she come towards me? Do I wait for her or does
she wait for me? She offered the invitation, not me; so does this make the date her
incentive? Does it matter whose incentive it is? Or is it always the guy’s job to-
A knock on the window startled me. My face went ashen-white as I looked over to see
her standing there. She laughed as I rolled down the window. “You scared me,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still laughing. “You should’ve seen your face!” She pointed
behind the JEEP, to her blue SATURN. “I kind of crept up on you. Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. I didn’t know what car you drove, so-’’
“It’s fine,” she said. “I should have told you. I’m silly. Do you want to drive or do you
want me to?”
“I’ll drive,” I told her. “Hop in.”
She moved around and got in. I thought, Should I have opened the door? Oh well, too late
now. I was shaking as I gripped the steering wheel; nervousness consumed me. I hope I
don’t stammer. I can’t stammer: I’ll just look like a dunce. I found my eyes dancing over her
figure. God, she’s gorgeous. She wore bellbottom jeans and a black miniskirt, revealing the
top of a twin pair of breasts and exposing her gorgeous pale-yet-tan arms. The freckles
ANTHONY BARNHART
around her nose reflected the sunlight coming through the windows. Curly blonde hair
dangled over her shoulders as she pulled the seatbelt over her slender stomach.
“Where would you like to go?” I asked. She didn’t care. “Well, you live here,” I said.
“It’s your call, really.” She asked if I was hungry. I said, “I could use some food. What’s
good?” We ended up going to a barbecue joint just down the street; I was thankful that the
drive was short, because I had a hard time coming up with conversation-starters without
being over-the-top and obviously awkward. We ordered our food and chatted about all
kinds of things as the waitress brought them out. As we left the restaurant, I purchased a
bottle of the barbecue sauce for my mom. She loves to pour the sauce over chicken.
“Do you want to go to the park?” she asked as we got into my car.
“Sure. Which park?” I asked.
“Benham’s Grove?”
“It’s right down the street, isn’t it? That direction?” I pointed north.
She grinned. “Yeah.” Those pearl-white teeth captivated me!
After having a meal and talking the entire time, the conversation was less awkward. I
told her about all the pranks I’d pulled and had pulled on me during my freshman year of
college—including a time I hid in a tiny closet with a bottle of TAG body spray, ready to leap
out at someone who continued jingling my doorknob in the middle of the night. “I was
going to get that stalker right in the eyes,” I told her. She found it absolutely hilarious.
As we walked through the park, following paths that wound around a sparkling-blue
lake ringed with brilliant-green oaks, she asked me all kinds of questions about college. She
confessed, “I graduate next year, and I have no idea where I want to go or what I want to
do. The guidance counselor keeps giving me these tests to find out what I’d be best at and
what I’d like to do the most, but every test has a different answer. One test said I should be
a horticulturalist, another said a zoologist, and though those are vaguely similar, the third
test I’ve taken told me I should be a monkey-tamer.”
I stopped in my tracks, eyed her. “You serious?”
She playfully slapped me. “No! Of course not. It said I should be a policeman.”
“Hmm.” We continued walking around the lake. “Colors the validity of the tests.”
“Yeah, something like that.” She pointed to a bench. “Want to sit down for a little
while?”
“Love to,” I said. As we sat down, “Do you like large schools? Small schools?”
She gave me an answer, but I don’t remember it: all I was conscious of was the way
she kept edging towards me. Part of her movements made me uncomfortable—This is all so
new to me! What am I supposed to do?!—but the other half—well, perhaps two-thirds of me—
found it irresistible: She wants me. She finds me attractive. She wants to be around me. It blew
my mind. She asked me a question; I didn’t answer, lost in these thoughts. She asked it
again: “So what do you think?”
I came back to reality and said, completely without any precedence, “Do what you
want to do.”
“But what if I’m not good at it?”
“So what? It’s what you want to do.”
“But I don’t know what I want to do.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Is that necessarily a bad thing? I mean, does anyone really know what they want to
do? I mean, what do people in your class say they want to do? They want to become
accountants or engineers or firemen. I don’t know, take your pick. But how many have sat
in an office all day and plugged numbers, or worked with schematics on paper and drawn
them out with drawing pencils, or how many have rode on a fire engine on the way to a
call? I say, ‘Get out there. Experiment.’”
She sighed. “I just wish I knew what I wanted to do. I wish I were like you. You
already know what you want to do. You want to be a preacher. Or teacher. Or whatever.”
“That’s because I’ve experimented with it. I’ve tried it out. And I like it.”
She smiled. “A teacher, huh?”
“Yeah, I hope so.” Did I seem insecure?
Apparently not: she took my hand in hers and said, “I think that’s absolutely
admirable.” Her fingers wrapped around mine, and her palms felt so warm. A tingling
sensation rippled through my hand and reached its way up my arm. She turned my hands
over and over. “Your hands are so soft.”
“I’m sorry,” I said in a tone laced with sarcasm.
“No, no!” she exclaimed. She stared me down with puppy-dog-eyes; so beautiful! “I
didn’t mean it like that.”
“Sure,” I said. “You probably wish they were hairy. And manly.”
“That’s so gross! I definitely wouldn’t hold your hands if they were like that.”
“Oh, so you’re all about looks?”
A joke: “You’re putting words in my mouth and I don’t appreciate it.” She squeezed
my hands, looked down. “And your hands are small, too. You have small hands.”
We sat in the park as the sun set.
She grunted. “Ugh. I have work tonight.”
“Really? I didn’t think you had to work tonight.”
“I got a text-message when we were eating. They want me to work a few hours.
Someone called off.”
“What time do you work?”
“An hour,” she said.
I stood up from the bench; I had to literally force my legs to move. “Well, we’d better
get you back, then.”
She closed her eyes, groaned. “Why did I say yes? I don’t want to leave.”
“Neither do I.”
“I could call off.”
“No. You gave them your word.”
“Quite the honorable young man you are,” she said. “But, damn it, you’re right.” She
stood.
We held hands as we walked back to the car. The trees were lacerated with dark
shadows as storm-clouds blotted out the sun. I opened the door for her, then went and got
in on my side. As I pulled out of the park, I said, “You know, this completely ruins my
plans for the night. I was supposed to go see fireworks.”
“Well, now you can,” she said.
ANTHONY BARNHART
“But I wanted to see them with you.”

She grinned, her face blushing. “Aww. That’s cute.” We drove in silence for a little
while, but it wasn’t too awkward. As we pulled into the KROGER parking lot, she said, “Well,
if it’s any consolation… And maybe I’m alone on this… I think some fireworks went off
while we were together.” She reached over and took my hand again, rubbing the top of my
hand with a pair of delicate fingers. “Do you agree?”
I smiled ear-to-ear. “Yeah. I completely agree.”
Once I parked my car, I turned off the engine and escorted her to her SATURN. I leaned
against the car as she unlocked her door.
“So I’ll give you a call tomorrow?” I asked.
“You’d better,” she said.
“Can I give you a hug?” The words came off my lips without me even knowing it.
She said, “Moving a little fast, are we?”
She held my hands but won’t hug me? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-’’
She stepped forward and embraced me. “Oh, but I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”
The warmth of her embrace… what I had desired for so long had come to fruition! I
imagine she could feel my heart spinning in my chest as I wrapped my arms around her
back, feeling the soft curls of her hair. She pulled away. “Well. I have to go get to work.
They’re thinking we might be busy with this being the 4th of July and everything.”
“Have fun,” I said, smiling at her.
Her eyes met mine, connected… Wow. I’ve never felt this way before. She likes me. I like
her. She’s innocent, sincere, wonderful. She seems genuine and authentic… quite unlike the plethora
of other girls I know! “Have fun, then, I guess.”
A sarcastic laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”
After she had left, I sat in my car for a little while, smoking a DJARUM clove. The sweet taste
of the cigarette smoke tingled the back of my throat. I kept replaying the day, when we met
at 2:00 and hung out till 8:30. I suddenly realized how hungry I had become: being with her
made the desire for food vanish away completely. She fulfilled my appetite. I tossed the
cigarette butt and started the engine, pulling out of the shopping complex.
Fireworks lit up the dark evening sky as I made my way home.
MY FIRST TASTE OF ROMANCE
As I walked through the front door of my home, Amber rushed down the steps to meet me.
“How did it go?!” she exclaimed.
“It went well,” I said.
She caught the understatement. “Did you kiss her?”
“What? No. I didn’t kiss her. Goodness.”
“So are you guys going to go out again?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m calling her tomorrow.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
She clapped her hands together. “I’m so excited! My big brother has a girlfriend!”
She embraced me.
I pushed her off. “We’re just talking,” I said.
“Did you hold her hand?”
“Yeah,” I said. And it was amazing. I didn’t know holding someone’s hand could be
so… Unbelievable. A certain electricity had run through her fingers, sending shockwaves of
something indescribable through me. I could still feel the warmth of her fingers stroking
my palm, could still feel the sweet gaze of her eyes as she looked deep into my own.
“I can’t wait till you kiss her,” she said. “You’ve never been kissed, have you?”
“No,” I said, walking into the kitchen. “Why’d you ask that? You already knew the
answer.”
“The first kisses are always the best. Especially if it’s someone you love.”
I froze before the refrigerator. Love? “I don’t love her,” I said.
“Love takes time. In time,” Ams said, “maybe you will.”
“Maybe,” I said, opening the refrigerator. That thought thrilled me… loving a girl who
loves me back. Wow. “Ugh. We’re out of orange juice.”
Amber hopped up onto the counter, crossing her legs. “So what’s she like?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, shutting the fridge door.
“I don’t know. Her personality? What does she look like?”
“She kind of looks like Britney Spears… Except a little chunkier.”
“Fat?”
“No, not at all. Britney Spears is a skeleton.”
“You like plump girls.”
“She’s not plump!” I exclaimed in her defense. “She has something to hold onto.”
“You like that.”
“Very much so.”
“So what’s her personality like, then?”
“Umm… Well, she’s funny. She’s smart. She can hold really great conversation. She
thinks my weirdness and awkwardness is hilarious. I mean, I really like her. I really, really
like her.”
“More than you liked Krissie?”
“Hell yes,” I said with a smile. “I like her a good deal.”
She grinned ear-to-ear. “I’m so excited for you! When do I get to meet her?”
“I don’t know. Soon, I imagine.”
I called Sammy the next day after work. We talked for about an hour, maybe an hour and a
half, and I told her my little sister wanted to meet her. She jumped at the opportunity:
“How about tomorrow?” I told her that would work. I gave her directions to my house,
and asked if she could arrive around 3:00 so I would have time to shower after I got off
work. She agreed, and the next day she pulled into the driveway, her blue SATURN reflecting
the sun hanging high overhead.
ANTHONY BARNHART
Amber peered through the blinds from the den window, watching her get out. I paced
back and forth in the parlor, my nerves a wreck. “Omigosh!” Amber exclaimed. “She does
kind of look like Britney Spears! The face, the hair, the body. Except… not as skinny.”
Sammy walked up to the door, paused, and rang the doorbell. I lurched forward and
opened it, smiling at her. “Hey there.” I invited her in, and she met my sister. We sat in the
living room and talked for about an hour. Mom arrived home and met her; she warmed to
her instantly. I made Sammy some of my famous grilled chicken—special spices with olive
oil inserted into the middle of the chicken through strategically-placed cuts—and served
everyone. Dad joined us when he got home. Dad wanted me to help him with something
out in the garage, and Mom and Sammy talked in the living room for about half an hour as
we worked on Dad’s van.
My dad said, “She seems like a wonderful girl.”
“She’s pretty cool,” I said.
“You’re taking things slow, right?” he asked.
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Just be careful. Don’t let your… hormones… get the best of you.”
“I won’t.”
My dad glared me in the eyes. “Don’t walk down the same path your mother and I
walked.”
A pause, then, “Was I conceived in the back of a parked car or something?”
A crooked smile. “No. But we were in the back of a parked car many times.”
“Well, I’m not going to do that,” I promised.
Later that night, I walked Sammy out to her car. As she got in, she said, “I really
enjoyed meeting your parents.”
“They really like you,” I said. “You and my mom hit it off really well. Dad told me he
thinks you’re wonderful.”
She blushed, the veins in her pale cheeks flushing. “Both of them seem really sweet.”
“When do I get to meet your parents?” I asked.
“When do you want to meet them?”
“As soon as possible,” I said.
“Tomorrow? Around 5:00? I work till 4:30, and I would like to shower and change.”
“5:00 works.” She gave me directions. I shut the door for her and waved goodbye.
Mom was cleaning up the kitchen when I walked back inside. “Anthony, come here,” she
said gently. I walked into the kitchen, and she told me, “She’s a really nice girl. Don’t let
someone like that slip through your fingers. Treat her right. Treat her like your father treats
me.”
“I will,” I said.
“Promise me. This world already has enough jerks in it.”
I was surprised at her language; most of the time, she sounded like a saint. “I
promise.”
“Good,” she said with a smile. “Can you vacuum the living room for me?” I guess I
could.
ANTHONY BARNHART
When I went to bed that night, Amber crept in, sitting in a chair against the wall.
I rolled over, looked up. I have to be up in six hours. Ugh. “Can I help you?”
“She’s so pretty!” Amber said. “I’m really surprised.”
“Ummm… Thanks?” How was I supposed to take that?
She explained, “I always thought you could get a pretty girl, but not a girl that pretty.”
I shook my head. “Give me your shovel, Amber. You’re just digging a deeper hole.”
She laughed. “No. It’s complimentary, I promise.”
“Some of it is complimentary,” I said. “The rest is derogatory. But, thank you, I guess.
I’ll tell Sammy that you think she’s pretty.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?”
I didn’t answer for a moment, then, “She’s beautiful.”
Just as Sammy met my parents, so I met hers. I cannot describe to you the anxiety that tore
through me as she drove me to her place; she had picked me up from my home. She lived
out in the backwoods of Centerville, and when she pulled into the driveway, her dad and
mom were standing out on the porch. Her dad sat in a white swing, rocking back and forth,
reading a paper and smoking a cigarette. Her mom stood in the doorway. Sammy
introduced me, then her mom asked her to have a talk, leaving me alone with her father.
He set down the paper and said, “Have a seat.”
I took a seat in a wooden rocking chair, quite awkward in my movements.
He crossed his arms. “How long have you known my daughter?”
“A few weeks,” I said. A blatant lie. Forgive me.
An awkward pause. He said, “Sammy is the only daughter I have. If you hurt her…”
“I understand,” I said.
He grinned. “Good. Then we have an understanding.” He lifted his paper and
continued reading.
I twisted my toes in my shoes, the awkwardness bursting.
He asked, “My daughter told me that you’re in college?”
“Yes. I go to Cincinnati Bible College. In Price Hill.”
“How do you like it there?” he asked. He continued to stare into the paper, as if
reading.
“It’s good,” I said. “It’s a small campus. I like small campuses.”
“My daughter doesn’t know where she wants to go. What would you recommend?”
“Ummm…” How was I supposed to answer? “I really don’t know. I learned about
C.B.C. at the last minute. I didn’t do anything special to narrow down my choices.”
“Ah, I see. What’s your major?”
“Biblical Studies. I’m probably going to go into teaching or something like that.”
“You want to hear something ironic?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I went to C.B.C. back in the day.”
I didn’t act surprised. “Your daughter told me.”
He lowered the paper, smiling. “Of course she did.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
The front door opened. Her mom asked, “Would you like to eat dinner with us
tonight?”
I nodded. “That would be fantastic.”
Her family seemed really nice, and for the next week we continued hanging out. One night
I confessed to Amber, “So I’m going to ask Sammy to be my girlfriend, but I don’t know
how! What do I say? What do I do?”
She said, “Anthony, it’s not that difficult. Tell her you like her and you want to be her
boyfriend.”
“But what if she doesn’t want to be my boyfriend?”
“Then why would she want to meet your parents? And want you to meet hers? Why
would she be spending four or five days a week with you? Think about it, Anthony: she’s
into you. She’s head over heels for you.” I began to shake my head, but she cut me off: “No.
Stop listening to those pesky little lies in your head. Why do you think a girl can’t like you?
Do you think you’re not good enough? Not adequate enough? Anthony: I’ve seen you guys
interact. I’ve seen it when she looks at you. I’ve seen her flirt with you. She likes you. I know
it’s unbelievable because you have a mountain of insecurities weighing down on you, but
I’m just being plain with you: she’s into you, and I promise, if you ask her to be your
girlfriend—or ask to be her boyfriend, or whatever words you use—she’ll say yes. Do you
believe me?”
I shook my head. “Yes. And no. My conscious says yes. My subconscious says no.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter. All you have to do is ask and see for yourself.”
The next afternoon we met at Benham’s Grove in Centerville and walked the trails. We
walked down to the GRAETER’S ICE CREAM on the corner down the road, and we ate our ice
cream on the way back. We sat beside the lake and watched the swans and ducks
swimming together. Several baby ducks waddled over the broken rocks. We sat on the
bench where we had sat earlier; my heart hammered in my chest as the sun began to set.
Orange-red sunlight bled through the treetops, scattering light across the rippling lake. I
leaned back and wrapped my arm around Sammy; she laid her head on my shoulder: Oh!
How wonderful.
“It’s so peaceful,” she said, closing her eyes. She snuggled against me, wrapping her
fingers around my arm. “I could just fall asleep.”
There was a wild pause, then I interrupted the perfect silence: “I’ve really enjoyed
hanging out with you these past… two weeks?”
“I’ve had fun, too,” she said.
“I’m not really one to rush into things…” My throat began knotting up… “But I really
like you. I can’t stop thinking about how wonderful—not to mention beautiful—you are.
What I’m saying—well, what I’m asking—then, I guess, is… Will you be my girl? My
girlfriend, I mean?”
She pulled away. Oh God, I thought. But relief flooded over me as a wicked smile
crossed over her lips. “Yes! I was really, really, really hoping you would ask me to be your
girlfriend! It’s taken you long enough!” She playfully slapped me across the arm. The smile
lied plastered over her face, unmoving, frozen.
ANTHONY BARNHART
What happened next cannot be described with words—mere words may capture the
physical experience, the technical details, but nothing can adequately captured what went
through my heart: fulfillment, joy, elation, ecstasy. A plethora of emotions and feelings that
made my heart stop behind my ribs. She tilted her head down, blond hair falling before her
eyes, and she asked, “Can I kiss you, Anthony?” I nodded, and she moved in, caressing my
cheek with one hand and gently pressing her lips against mine. My hands shook; one went
up to her face, the other onto her arm. She held the kiss for an eternity, then pulled away—
it had been mere seconds, maybe five or six, but it had felt like it would never leave. I
didn’t want it to leave. The taste of her lips, the feeling of her fingers against my cheek, all
of this remained even after she had stopped.
My heart sprinted laps and my hands shook. She took my hands in hers and held them
tight. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s because…” I fought to find words. “… I’m so happy.”
“It’s okay. Shhh.” She squeezed my hands, then pulled her body against mine, kissing
my forehead. “You’re a wonderful boy, you know that?”
“And you’re a wonderful girl.”
“I’m a lucky girl,” she said. “Such a lucky girl.”
MY FIRST GIRLFRIEND
When I got home, a message was waiting for me on my email:
I’m the most excited girl in the world! You are the sweetest, smartest, and
kindest boy I have EVER known! EVER! Just know that, okay?
I smiled ear-to-ear when I read it; I showed Amber and she grinned likewise. “She’s
such a sweet girl! I like her so much! Anthony, you deserve a girl like her.”
Deep down, I didn’t think I deserved her. How could God grant me such grace? I
wondered. Yet God had granted me grace, and it was such a great feeling: desiring and
being desired. Liking and being liked. Looking into her eyes, deep as the wildest oceans,
and becoming lost in the waves of her being… stranded and without a paddle, there was
no other place I would rather have been.
Not a few days after I asked her to be my girlfriend at the park, we went to her house on
Friday night. “We need to watch the stars come out together!” she exclaimed. It was then
that we shared our first “real” romantic moment. We sat out on her back porch in a
swaying hammock; the backyard opened up to a cornfield tucked beneath a murky-blue
sky. The sunlight began to shimmer and fade, the dark blue streaked with glowing red-
orange stripes. The first star came out, and Sammy said it was Venus, not really a star.
ANTHONY BARNHART
She then became really excited; she squeezed my hand. “Do you know who Venus is
named after?”
I told her I did not.
“It’s named after the Greek goddess of love.”
My heart burned. “How romantic,” I cooed, half-serious and half-joking.
Once she said that, a shooting star—the second I had ever seen in my life—flew
overhead. “I just saw a shooting star!” I exclaimed.
She burst, “Are you serious? That’s so cool!”
“The romance keeps getting better and better,” I said with a sly smile.
When the first star came out, right over the crescent moon (“It’s God’s thumbnail,”
Sammy told me), she suggested, “Let’s wish upon a star together.” So we both made a quiet
wish and repeated it over-and-over in our heads. Finally, after a moment, she leaned back
in the hammock, leaned her head on my shoulder, her blond hair tickling my neck, and she
said, “That was so neat.”
When I returned home, I told Ams all about it. She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you guys are
one of those ‘cheesy’ couples.”
Sammy wanted to go on a double-date later that week, so she and I joined Amber and Luke
at a Thai restaurant in town. After dinner, we couples went our separate ways. The sun still
held high, so Sammy and I went to Clearcreek Park by my hometown and laid out on the
lawn, listening to kids playing soccer and dogs panting on the trails. We talked about all
kinds of things, and I found myself lost in the moment: hours passed, the sky grew dark,
and eventually we had to leave. We went to her place, and she didn’t want me to leave. We
sat outside on the front porch swing, admiring the stars and cuddling, fighting off the
lukewarm breeze ruffling the tops of the dried cornstalks.
“I really need to get going,” I told her. “I have to work tomorrow.”
“No, please don’t go,” she said in the softest, most sincere and wonderful voice.
I squeezed her. “You know I don’t want to go, either. I’d rather be nowhere else.”
She turned her head towards me, and I began kissing her face, moving downwards to
her lips. We changed positions upon the chair, kissing. We held one another, wrapped our
arms around one another, held each other closer and kissed, passionately and romantically.
My hands explored her arms, her waist, her belly, her neck and face as we kissed. We
would break in the kissing and taste one another: her shoulder, neck, arms. She moved atop
of me, and I lied down upon the swing. We kissed harder, more vigorously. At a pause, we
breathed hard, holding one another.
“I just want to hold you forever,” she said; “I never want to let you go.”
I pressed her head into mine, the sweet scent of her hair intoxicating. “I can feel your
heartbeat.”
She placed her hand on my chest, feeling mine.
She started kissing me; when we stopped, holding one another tight, I said, “I don’t
know… what love is… but I’m willing to bet…”
ANTHONY BARNHART
She finished my thought, her azure dove eyes piercing the very essence of my
humanity: “…this is it.” Her voice shook and quivered, so fragile and delicate, so beautiful
and serene.
We kissed and held; she breathed hard and shook, so I kissed her face over and over,
telling her how she is everything I’ve always wanted, dreamed of, desired, how I love her
so much. She started to cry, so I held her. She began kissing me again, even more
passionate, our tongues exploring one another’s mouths.
She stopped to catch her breath, raising her head above mine, her charming hair
hanging around me. I looked up into her wondrous eyes, her hair cascading like a waterfall
around me, her chest quivering. We kissed again, sat up, held one another, kissed one
another.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said in a teary voice.
I responded, “I don’t want to leave.”
A moment in paradise;
a whisper of divinity,
a clue to the reason we are all here.
My cell-phone rang that night as I was going to bed. I noticed the number was from
Sammy; a ripple of fear ran through me—Quit being so paranoid, I told myself—and I
answered it. We talked a little bit. I told her I had a great time tonight, and she agreed. She
then said, “The first time we kissed, I’m not going to lie, it was a little awkward. I mean,
you were shaking and stuff. But tonight was the best kissing I’ve ever been involved in. I’ve
never felt like kissing someone over and over again… until you. I didn’t want you to let go
of me. I want you to know that tonight was the most romantic and beautiful night of my life
so far. I really hope we have so many more nights like this together so that we lose count!”
When we finished talking and she left me to go to bed, I could still taste her sweet
kisses.
I only slept an hour that night, but work went by really quickly: the energy in my
veins has not yet been paralleled. I called Sammy during lunch and told her, “I only slept
an hour last night because I kept thinking about how absolutely wonderful our time
together was. Just laying in the grass in the park, riding in the car with you, laughing
beside you at the Thai restaurant, walking arm-in-arm, and—especially—holding and
kissing you on your swing under the stars… All of this was so wonderful. The best night of
my life. I’m so excited to be your boyfriend.”
She exclaimed, “We had the most amazing night, bar none! We laughed and held each
other and kissed! Amazing kisses! I’m trying to describe what I felt when I kissed you, and
I can’t because I’ve never felt this before. I am the girlfriend of the most sensational boy in
the world, and I can’t wait until we sit under the stars again… or even without the stars,
because I’ll be with you.”
“For seven years, Sammy, I prayed that God would bring me a girl as awesome as
you, and for seven years I wondered if it were possible. In all honesty, I still find it
unbelievable that a girl as beautiful, charming, and mesmerizing as you finds something of
interest in an average-Joe guy like me. It’s like this is the best dream of my life, and I’m
ANTHONY BARNHART
about to wake up, except it’s real and it’s the best feeling in the world. And then God
showed me, in a way I cannot describe, the kind of girl He had for me. He showed me you,
in every aspect: emotional, spiritual, physical, and I remember the joy I felt that day. It’s
been a long wait, and at times I wondered if the wait would be worth it… But now I believe
—no, I know—that it was worth it.”
The excitement could be captured in a bottle as she spoke: “You are mine, and it’s
amazing.”
The summer began to wind down to a close; only a few more weeks left. Sammy and I had
grown mightily close, and I expressed a concern to her one day as we were shopping at
DOLLAR MART: “What are we going to do when school starts? You’ll be working and going to
school, and I’ll hopefully be working and at school. And we’ll be an hour apart.”
“We’ll make time, Sweetie,” she said, hugging me and kissing me on the lips. “It’ll be
okay.”
“I’m going to miss you way too much.”
“Maybe you could let that ‘oh-so-great’ pain motivate you to finish your degree on
time?”
“I’d rather be spending time with you than studying for exams.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” she laughed.
We left DOLLAR MART and made our way back to her place. We had bought some
drinks, and we drank them during dinner. Sammy fixed some pasta, and then afterwards
we laid out on her trampoline. We kissed for a little bit, but then she rolled over: “I’m so
tired.”
I snuggled up against her and buried my face in her hair, wrapping my arms around
her.
The sun set as we lied on her trampoline. For a moment I thought she had fallen
asleep, but then she broke the silence, surprising me: “I’m so glad you came to STARBUCKS the
other night. Because I met you. Do you want to hear something weird?”
“Sure,” I told her in a low voice, whispering in her ear.
“The day you came, I was having a really hard time. I was on the verge of tears.”
“Really?” I propped up on my elbow. “You didn’t look it at all.”
“That’s because, when you entered… I felt all of the pain go away. When you entered
the room, a certain presence came in with you. I’m weird, right?”
“Yes,” I said, kissing her hair. “But it’s a good kind of weird.”
“Well, it gets weirder. Even before you came, I had this feeling… That soon things
would change. I got that feeling about five minutes before you actually arrived. I think
about it all the time. It makes me wonder… Never mind.”
I urged her on. “Come on. I know you want to say it.”
“I know. But I’m scared.” She rolled over onto her other side, now facing me. Her eyes
cut into mine. “I’m scared that… I’ll ruin things.”
“You won’t ruin anything.”
“I’m afraid you won’t like me anymore.”
“Sammy. Seriously. Come on. What could make me not like you anymore?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
She seemed torn between two poles; she said, “I don’t know…”
“Well, it’s up to you,” I said, leaning forward and kissing her forehead. “If you don’t
want to tell me, you don’t have to.”
“Okay,” she said.
We lied there for a little while longer. The stars began to come out. She finally spoke:
“It makes me wonder if you and me… if we’re meant to be.” I didn’t say anything at first;
she shook her head. “I’m so stupid. Now you’re all freaked-out. You think I’m psycho or
something.”
“No, no, not at all,” I told her. “I’ve wondered the same thing many times.”
We continued cuddling on her trampoline, our bodies close together in a rhythmic
dance paused in the stencils of time. Our noses touched, and every now and then I would
kiss her. Her breathing became shallower and slower. I spoke quietly: “Holding you is the
best feeling in the world. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” A lot of guys are all about
fondling a girl and getting his tongue inside her mouth, and while I do enjoy a good round
of kissing, I found more joy and peace in just holding her close that night. As we lied under
the stars, wrapped together, my face buried in her beautiful golden hair, I had no place else
I would have rather been. I had no other desire but to be in her arms, holding her close,
feeling her breath, cuddling under the blanket of stars. Serenity draped me like a velvet
coat, and peace and joy—those elusive tenets that all creatures try to possess—had finally
wormed their way into the inner caverns of my being.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I stayed up in my room, lying in bed. Amber walked past the
room to go to bed around 1:00 a.m., and I called her inside. I leaned up on my elbows.
“How do you know if you love someone?” I asked.
She glared at me. “Are you serious? You guys just met!”
“I know. But what I feel… it’s… Well, I can’t describe it, that’s how great it is.”
“Love is greater than feelings, Anth. Right now you’re in the infatuation stage… And
I’d guess lust is involved, too, because she’s quite the adorable girl.”
“So you’re saying it’s impossible for me to be in love?”
“No. Not at all. Love is something that can’t be measured, you know? Think about it
this way: would you do anything to make Sammy happy, even if it meant breaking up with
her? do you like the idea of spending the rest of your life with her—even when she gets old
and cranky and bitter? are you comfortable with the idea of her raising your children? do
you want her to be the one who knows everything about you? are you willing to abandon
your dreams to make hers come true? Love is selfless, sacrificial, and it’s rooted in
servitude. If the answer to those questions is ‘yes,’ well, then… You just might be in love.
But don’t take my word for it, okay? Because I’m only 17. What in the world do I know?”
Around 2:30 a.m., I opened up my laptop and wrote an email to Sammy:
I love you, Sammy. Know that. I mean, really, KNOW that. You’re the only
girl I’ve ever loved like this, a love that is foolish in the eyes of many but is
nevertheless undeniable, a love that saturates me and makes me yearn for
ANTHONY BARNHART
you every moment of the day. You’re the most wonderful thing that has ever
happened to me, a precious gift from God. I am so grateful yet so terrified at
the same time: so grateful to be with you, the most beautiful and stunning
and majestic of all girls, and yet terrified, because I do not want to hurt you
in any way. It’s a great responsibility to be with a girl as wonderful as you,
and I don’t want to ruin anything we have. I don’t want to treat our love like
it’s nothing special, because our love is proof that divinity is real.
As we held one another under the stars tonight, you said you wondered if
we were “meant to be.” I haven’t been able to think; my mind has been
chaotic, trying to process everything that has happened over the past
month. I believe we’re “meant to be.” You and me, meant to be… and this is
the most exciting twist in my life!
You make me sleep well at night. For seven years I hoped and prayed and
wept, desiring a girl like you. Now that I’ve found you… contentment is all
that I know. And when I’m with you, you are all that I know. You’re my
precious treasure whom I’ve found, a priceless diamond in a world of
granite and limestone. I love you so much that I’d give my very life just to
be with you and to call you my own.
Before work the next morning, Sammy sent me this message back:
You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me! EVER!!!!!!!!! It’s
amazing to be called your girlfriend! I’m the luckiest girl in the world! And
P.S.: I LOVE YOU TOO!!!!
As I drove to work that morning, the sun barely rising before 6 a.m., I couldn’t help but
smile. God had finally answered my prayer. He had finally delivered me. I was in love with
the most amazing, wonderful, fantastic girl I had ever met. As I drove to the parking lot of
the moving company, I thought to myself, A year ago I bathed in absolute, utter hopelessness.
My romantic desires burned but found no outlet. But now I have hope that is touchable and kissable.
There is a wonderful, beautiful girl whom I love and who loves me. We share in the best romance:
walks in the woods, cuddling under the stars, sharing our lives together.
One of my cousins called and asked about Sammy; he had heard about it through my
parents. I told him, “Her name is Sammy, and she is amazing. She is everything—
everything!—I’ve always wanted in a girl. Every moment with her is a sweet glimpse of
paradise, a sliver of heaven.” My voice trailed, caught in a plethora of ecstasy. “Just to hear
her voice, to hold her, to kiss her… This is the greatest pleasure in the world. Every minute
spent with her only intensifies my love for her.”
Amber found out that I had confessed my love for Sammy: “Anthony! You’re so stupid!”
ANTHONY BARNHART
I didn’t try to explain myself out of her cynicism.

“You have no idea what love is!” she exclaimed. “You told her you love her—you can’t
take that back!”
Some people got upset when I expressed my love for the angel who was my girlfriend.
“You are infatuated,” they told me. “This season will pass. You are not in love.” But did
they feel what I felt? did they know what I knew? I knew what I felt and knew what I knew
—and I was convinced that it had to be love, it just had to be! One day we went out for a
walk through the park and an afternoon with ice cream, and I told her, as we walked hand-
in-hand through the wooded trails, “I feel like all my life has led me to this point. This—
you and me—is where I’m supposed to be. Where we’re supposed to be.” With tears in her
eyes, she stepped in front of me, wrapped her arms around me, and buried her face into
my chest. “I love you so much, Anthony. I’m convinced that we’re meant to be.”
On Sunday morning, I pulled into Sammy’s driveway while it was still dark. She sat on the
front step of her wooden porch, wrapped up in a blanket to fight off the early morning
cold. We sat in the back of the JEEP, holding one another underneath the plaid blanket,
watching the sunrise. As the sun began to burn brightly, we began to kiss. She could not
kiss very long, because she was so tired, so she laid her head in my lap and closed her eyes.
I rubbed her cheeks with my fingers, and she grinned. We went back inside about half an
hour later and made pancakes, and then she showered and got dressed for church. We
drove to the church where I taught at, and I taught on (ironically) the Song of Solomon.
Sammy, me, and a bunch of friends went to DAIRY QUEEN for ice cream, then we went to my
friend Ashlie’s house to watch some television.
One of my friends said, “In psychology they taught us a little trick that psychologists
use. Well, it’s not really a trick, but it helps psychologists look into the past of peoples’ lives.
It’s really cool. Here.” He passed out some sheets of paper. “Now, draw a tree.” So me, him,
and Sammy drew trees. “Now, draw an owl hole in the tree.” So we drew owl holes; mine
was at the bottom, his was near the middle, and Sammy’s was at the very top. He went on
to explain, “These holes represent where bad, maybe traumatic things have happened in
our lives. The base of the tree represents our births, and the top of the tree represents life
now. So you can see that mine happened halfway through my life, which you know about,
Anthony.” He turned to Sammy: “My dad got a divorce.”
“Oh,” she said, staring at her tree.
“And something traumatic happened to you, Anthony, when you were young.”
I perused my mind, but I couldn’t find anything that happened. “I think it’s flawed.”
“Nothing traumatic happened?” he asked.
“Not that I can remember,” I told him.
I wouldn’t learn of those dark years for a few more months.
My friend looked at Sammy: “What traumatic experience happened to you?”
Suddenly, almost out of nowhere, she began to cry. Not a horrendous sobbing or
anything like that, but a gentle trickle cascading down her rosy-red cheeks. My friend’s face
flushed red in embarrassment, and he quickly apologized and stood, leaving the room.
I wrapped my arm around Sammy and stroked her cheek. “You okay?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
She nodded, sniffling. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” I asked.
She kept her eyes averted from mine. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “He didn’t mean anything-’’
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
The rest of the evening, a question burned in the back of my mind: what happened?!
What had happened so recently in her life that it caused tears to come at the mere thought
of it? I had no recollection of her ever telling me anything throughout the month of our
dating. I’d expressed my former sins to her, and she had done likewise—but nothing so
drastic so as to draw tears. As the sun began to set, after eating dinner with my friends, we
got into the car and headed back to her place to drop her off.
She said, “Can we pull over for a minute?”
“Sure,” I said, wondering why she made such a request. I pulled into a MARATHON gas
station.
We sat in the car for a little while, the engine idling. She began to cry once more.
I said, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“No,” she said. It came off short. “I need to tell you. I want to tell you. It’s just… hard.”
“All right,” I said. I turned off the car. Silence engulfed us. “Take your time. I’m in no
hurry.”
A few minutes passed, and then she started speaking. “When I was fifteen, I started
smoking marijuana. I knew then that it would lead to other stuff, you know?” She fought
off tears. “I didn’t think it would happen to me, though. But it did.” I wondered if she
would go into more detail, but my internal questions were answered: “I was hanging out
with all the wrong people. I made all the wrong friends at school. You know how
Centerville schools are. It seems like everyone uses drugs. I made friends with all the
‘stoners’, and my life consisted of hanging out with them in sheds or barns or garages
behind their houses, smoking marijuana. One of my friend’s dad grew it in a greenhouse,
and he let his son have some as long as he paid for it. I eventually got into harder stuff.
Cocaine, ecstasy, heroin.” The tears were coming stronger now. My heart burned for her. “I
met a boy who got us cocaine, his name was Jeremy, and we just had a physical
relationship. I know that’s hard for you to hear.” I told her it was okay. “One day… I
conceived… I conceived a baby.” She then broke into horrendous tears, shaking. I put my
arm around her, but she writhed away—she would later tell me that she felt untouchable,
being such a horrible, nasty person. “I was only sixteen at the time; I couldn’t have a baby.
So I had an abortion. My parents never knew about it.”
She cried for a while longer. I kept comforting her with quiet words: “It’s okay. I
forgive you. I love you. Everything is okay.” I could tell that she felt like such a demonic
girl: she had abused herself and given herself over to abusers who used her as a drug, and
she had been ravaged and raped emotionally. She felt absolutely worthless, rotten, vile. My
words did not leave a single impression on her heart. She could not cast off those wretched
feelings.
After a few minutes of sobbing, she began to calm down, and she spoke again: “I want
you to know… That I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“It’s okay, Sammy. You hear me? It’s okay?”

“I’ve quit… I’m done with the drugs…”
“Were you using them when we got together?”
“No,” she said. “No, I promise. And I broke up with Jeremy… Before school ended, I
broke up with him. I’ve been seeing a counselor, and I went to rehab. It’s been months since
I’ve even touched any drugs.” She looked over at me with eyes bloodshot from crying. “I’m
so sorry. If you don’t want to be with me anymore, I understand. But I hope—I really hope
—that you feel the same way about me, even after all the crap I did.”
“Sammy,” I said. “Have you forgotten?” I squeezed her shoulder; she didn’t writhe
away. “I love you.”
She smiled, a heartwarming smile. “I love you, too. And I can’t tell you how sorry I
am.”
“That’s the old Sammy, okay? This right here…” I pointed to her, “…is the new
Sammy. This is a new life. And I’m going to help you, okay? I love you. And we’ve all
messed up and done crap we shouldn’t have. It’s just different with all people. I love you
despite what you’ve done, and you have my total and complete forgiveness. Both of us are
going to make mistakes and mess up, but we’re going to need to forgive and move on. All
of this is in your past, anyways. We’re together now. The future is bright and shining.
Everything is great.”
She smiled, pushing tear-soaked hair out of her eyes. “That means a lot to me.”
“And you mean a lot to me,” I said.
Two nights later, as I was sleeping, my phone rang. I woke up and fumbled for it; through
my blurred vision I saw SAMMY displayed on the phone’s screen. I flipped it open and
answered. She apologized for waking me up. She told me she was house-sitting at her
cousin’s, because they were gone on vacation, and it was really dark and stormy, so she was
scared. I hadn’t noticed the storm, but just as she said that, the window to my room lit up
with light. She said, in a sweet and delicate voice, “Can you stay on the phone with me
while I fall asleep?” Of course, I told her. So I stayed on the phone as she fell asleep. As she
drifted off, she said, “I love you, Anthony Jordan Barnhart.” I told her, “And I love you,
Sammy Renee Baker.” I fell asleep hearing her shallow breathing, and I awoke to the
sounds of birds chirping outside my window.
“My friend is throwing a swimming-pool party,” Sammy told me the next week. “Want to
come?” I agreed, and I met her at her place, and then we took her car to her friend’s place.
There were five or six cars parked outside; we walked around the back of the large house—
Centerville is a haven for the rich of Ohio—and down a flight of cobblestone steps sat an L-
shaped swimming pool with a diving board, where several high school kids dove in and
swam. A plastic table had been erected beside the back doors of the basement, and they
were laden with all kinds of sodas, meats, a vegetable platter, and junk food of all types.
Sammy introduced me to her friends, and then she excused herself to go change. She came
out wearing a beautiful two-piece, exposing her radiant upper thigh, her arms, and her
beautiful stomach. My insides churned, and I forced myself to expose the temptation of lust
ANTHONY BARNHART
and cast it out. I changed and joined everyone in the pool, where we threw the ball around
for a while.
I grabbed some food with some of the guys there. One of them asked me, “So have
you eaten her pussy yet?”
I was so shocked I nearly dropped my food. “Excuse me?”
“Have you eaten her out? Cleaned out the ravine? I hear she’s good.”
“Who told you that?” I demanded, leaping on the defensive.
“Her ex-boyfriend. Did she tell you about him?”
Another boy jumped in. “She’s a horn-dog. She’ll ride you for hours without stopping.
Has she asked you to sleep with her yet?”
“No…” I stammered.
“Oh, you will. She won’t be able to stop.”
The awkwardness grew. “Okay, well, why don’t we talk about something—’’
“Has she given you a blowjob?”
“No!” I exclaimed. “Seriously. Guys. Please. That’s my girlfriend.”
“She’s yours now,” one joked. “Whose will she be next week?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, unable to resist the question.
One of the boys who had been quiet said, “She’s the neighborhood bicycle. That
means she-’’
“I know what it means,” I cut him off.
As we drove back, I told her about the conversation.
“Assholes,” she muttered. She excused herself. “I’m sorry. They just can’t accept that
I’m not the same kind of girl anymore! I’ve told them over and over that I’m different. They
invite me to their pot-smoking parties and I decline. I don’t go get drunk with them
anymore. I’ve abandoned my old ways and embraced another way of life, you know? A
clean life. A new future. But they just can’t accept that.” She shook her head in anger. “And
now they’re telling you all about it like it’s present-tense.”
“It’s a good thing,” I think, “that we had that conversation last week.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“They did say something else,” I said. “They said… You get around? Well, ‘got’
around.”
She sighed. “No. I was only with Jeremy. Before that was Colin, but that was nothing.”
“So why’d they say that?”
“To rile you up. They take the truth and twist it around. They exaggerate. You know
that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
But it still worried me.
The Centerville Fair took place the next day; me, Sammy, and two of her friends (another
couple) banded together and car-pooled to the fair. It wasn’t that crowded, because it had
been raining earlier that day: when I had arrived to her house, we sat on the front porch
and talked the entire time, wondering if we would actually go to the fair. However, the rain
had let up and her friend Nikki said, “Let’s go.” So we and her boyfriend Ryan made our
ANTHONY BARNHART
way over there. We walked past several of the shops opened to customers; Sammy and I,
both adorers of Chinese food, bought some General Tao’s chicken and ate it at a picnic
table. Nikki and Ryan ate some corndogs and fries, and then we got in line for a ride called
THE GRAVITY GUN, a ride that propelled the riders in a circular motion so that G-forces held
them pinned to the wall without constraints. We made a very bad mistake on that ride, for
when we came off, Nikki and Sammy both felt ill.
Sammy leaned against a railing and held her stomach; I stood by her, and she leaned
forward and wrapped her arms around me: “Hold me, Baby.”
Ryan found some friends, and they went on another ride. Sammy wasn’t feeling better
quite yet, but Nikki felt better, so she and Ryan decided to go on another ride. Sammy and I
sat down beside a tree.
My own stomach began to hurt from the Chinese food being tossed around, so I
leaned my head against her chest and closed my eyes. My thoughts wandered and my
conscious seemed to fade, and I almost fell asleep—my near-sleep broke as a shudder ran
through Sammy’s body. I opened my eyes and leaned up, my neck aching, and I saw
someone standing there—a lanky fellow with black hair and brown eyes. I could tell just by
his body language and Sammy’s tension that this was boy was Jeremy.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said back, feeling entirely awkward.
“So you’re her boyfriend?” he asked, glaring down at me.
I swallowed, a knot in my throat bobbing. “Yeah.”
“Has she told you what she’s been up to?”
“Yes,” I told him. “And I’ve forgiven her. She’s a new girl now.”
“You’ve ‘forgiven’ her?” A chuckle. “A ‘new girl’? Hah. Now that’s laughable.”
Sammy hung her head low. “Jeremy. Please don’t do this.”
He opened his arms wide. “Do what? I’m not doing anything.”
Some people called out his name from across the way. He gave a courtesy-bow and
dipped away.
A tear trickled down Sammy’s cheek. She looked over at me. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I believe you’re a new girl. You’re my girl.”
She didn’t smile this time. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Do you want to find Ryan and Nikki and get going?”
“Yeah,” she said. “That’d be nice.”
She was quiet the entire way back. When we got back to her place, we sat on her front
porch, in the swinging chair. She didn’t say much then, either. I asked her what was wrong.
“Jeremy. It’s Jeremy.”
“Don’t worry about him, okay?”
“I can’t believe what I’ve done,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sammy…”
“You don’t understand-’’
“Things are different now, remember? I’ll never understand what you’re going
through. But I love you. And we’re going to make this work. Got it?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
It seemed as if she hadn’t even heard me; her eyes were glazed-over. She spoke
without looking at me: “Did you really mean what you said the other night? About us
making mistakes and moving on and forgiving?”
“If I didn’t,” I said, “then I wouldn’t have forgiven you, now, would I?”
She then looked over at me. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep myself pure for you.”
“Sammy. Please. Don’t beat yourself up. We all make mistakes.” I leaned over and kissed
her. “I have to go, though, okay? I have a meeting with my pastor for a possible internship
next summer. Don’t drown yourself in past memories and regrets, okay? You’re wasting
your time. You’re a beautiful, crazily-amazing girl, the answer to my dreams, and I love
you.”
“I love you, too,” she said. We kissed for a few moments, and then I departed.
CONTEMPLATING THE FUTURE
The day for me to return to college was on the horizon; I would work tomorrow, have
Saturday off, and return to school on Sunday, near the end of August 2006. Sammy
continued to have a difficult time dealing with her past. She had become cold all of a
sudden, and at times it took my greatest efforts to even bring out a smile. She kept
apologizing, and I kept telling her it was okay. “When we came together,” I would tell her,
“we started new lives. All of that stuff in your past that you regret—all that stuff that
haunts you—is behind you. All of the stuff in my past—my mistakes, my failures, my
screw-ups, all those haunting demons—are behind me. Not only is it behind us… but it’s
even non-existent.”
She came over to my house one evening; my parents were out at a Bible Study, and
my sister was out with Luke. We watched The Lord of the Rings downstairs before fixing
some rice and chicken for dinner. We sat on the couch before the fireplace, and I lit a warm
fire with a starter-log (Mom always kept the house nearly freezing, even in the summer).
We cuddled for a while and began kissing.
As we kissed, she said in my ear, “I want to grow old with you. I want to build my
family with you.”
I kept kissing her, and I pulled away, smiling, the blond hair dangling in front of her
eyes, and I said, half-joking and half-serious, “We’re going to get a small cabin in the
woods, with a walk-around porch, with a fireplace and lots and lots of quilts.”
We kept kissing, and we kissed until the sun went down: passionate, loving kissing.
Sammy lost her breath, and I kissed her cheek. She rose up on her knees, her arms and face
flushed red. She panted.
“Why are you breathing so hard?” I asked.
“Because… I love you… So much…” It was a wonderful, extraordinary evening.
I had kept Amber informed on my evolving relationship with Sammy. I caught her that
night after Sammy left, and I asked her, “Do you love Luke?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“No,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I won’t know if I love him till about six months are
up, because the infatuation stage usually lasts about six months. And in that time you learn
all about the other person, the good and bad stuff, and you need to know about the good
and bad stuff in order to know if you love someone.” A pause. “Why are you asking me
this?”
“I can see myself with Sammy. I can see her raising my family. I can see myself being
with her forever.”
Amber closed her eyes and rubbed them. “Goodness, Anthony. You’re so dumb
sometimes.”
Sarcasm: “Please, don’t be happy for me.”
She opened her arms wide. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Anth.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
“She’s your first girlfriend. She’s your first taste of romance. Give it some time.”
“Give what some time?”
“Thinking about marriage.”
“Who said anything about marriage?”
“I can see it in your eyes. How long have you guys been dating? A month?”
“A month and a few weeks.”
“That is not enough time to tell if you love her. Trust me.”
I knew, logically, that Ams was right… But deep down, I thought, I’m going to marry
this girl.
One of my friends had written a poem and showed it to me:
I can’t wait to find the one person God made for me.
I can’t wait to sing love songs to someone.
I can’t wait to support my wife in everything she does.
I can’t wait until my world won’t be right without her in it.
I can’t wait to make memories that won’t be forgotten.
I can’t wait to know that there is no other person in the world for me.
I can’t wait to be the most handsome man she has ever seen.
I can’t wait for each kiss to have meaning.
I can’t wait for each “I love you” to feel as exciting as the first.
I can’t wait to have sex like crazy every second.
I can’t wait to make love and to be intimate.
I can’t wait to be everything to someone.
I can’t wait to be a father and to love my kids to death.
I can’t wait to raise a family.
I can’t wait to play outside with my kids in the fall and take pictures of them.
I can’t wait to laugh with my family.
I can’t wait to look at my children and think that they are the most beautiful children in the
world.
I can’t wait to share my wife’s colored pancakes with my children before they go to school.
I can’t wait to be proud of everything my children do.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I can’t wait to pick on my kids and make them laugh.

I can’t wait for God to make me into who I am supposed to be.
I can’t wait for my life to be complete.
I believed I had found the one person God made for me. I had finally found someone
to whom I could sing the cheesiest yet sweetest love song. I found a girl whom I would
support in everything she did. My world wouldn’t be right without her—she had become a
part of me, and I had become a part of her. I made memories with her that I will never
forget, and I believed that there was no one else for me on God’s green earth. She thought I
was the cutest, most handsome boy she had ever met, and every kiss we shared had
meaning. Each time I whispered “I love you” and heard her whisper it back, an electricity
traveled through me: three words, formed by syllables and sounds flung off the tongue,
held a power that even the most brilliant scientist in the world could not understand. I
remembered seeing her in that bathing suit, resembling a Greek goddess shining under the
golden sun, and I ached for the day when we could have sex like crazy and be intimate
with one another. I was everything to this girl, and one day she would be my wife (I was
sure of it!), and I would be a father and love my kids to death, spending time with them
every chance I would get: take them flying kites in the summer winds, playing in the leaves
in autumn, building snow igloos with the snowstorms of winter, and playing Frisbee
between the spring rains. One day I would have the WORLD’S BEST DAD mugs and t-shirts
and use and wear them proudly, and I would mount their I LOVE DAD plaques on my wall.
God was making me into the man whom He wanted me to be, and He had brought “the
one” into my life.
The future looked bright.
The future looked beautiful.
I went to bed happy, content, joyful. Thank you, God, for answering my prayers. Thank
you for this spectacular gift that I do not deserve: the most precious girl in the world to call my own.
I cannot sum up the experiences of my summer following that wonderful day I met Sammy
at STARBUCKS. The gauntlet of emotions that ran through me—joy, elation, peace,
contentment, true happiness—was something I’d never experienced before. The world had
seemed to come alive, as if she had woken me from a dream: the colors seemed more
brilliant, the songs of the birds formed beautiful melodies one could sing lyrics to, and even
the rainfall seemed to sparkle amidst the streaking lightning. “Ignorance is bliss,” that old
cliché goes, and while I did not know it when I had gone to bed that night, all of the signs
of creeping darkness closed around me… But ignorance kept me from seeing them. The
next day all of it would come crashing down in a wall of shattered dreams and tattered
sobs.
BROKEN DESTINY
ANTHONY BARNHART
The rain came down in torrents when I awoke. Three large storms rolled in overnight, and I
had slept peacefully amidst the thunder and lightning lighting up my room, the sound of
the rolling growls and the tinkling of rain against my window performing sweet lullabies.
Feeling nourished and exuberant, excited about a beautiful future—and a last day of
working 6 a.m. to 2 p.m., because I moved in the next day, Saturday!—I drove through the
pouring rain to the moving company’s parking lot.
I sat in the JEEP and listened to music, smoked a Djarum clove, and began to fall asleep
as someone knocked on my door. I looked up to see Gary, the supervisor, knocking on my
window. I rolled it down; he stood grinning in the rain: “Day’s off! See you Monday!”
“Yeah, right!” I laughed, and I quickly left the parking lot. Work was over—a wave of
excitement washed over me.
I had no other plans for the day, so I decided, halfway home through the drenching
rain, to go visit Sammy. She had always told me she’d love to hold me in the rain. I took the
next turn and drove into Centerville, contemplating how excited she would be to see me. I
saw her rolling over in her sleep, opening her eyes; I saw the excitement sparkle as she
leapt up and hugged me, pulling me down on top of her; I could hear her whispering, “Let
me fall asleep with you, okay?” And I could feel her breath upon me as she curled up
against me and slept. My wonderful girlfriend! How could I be so lucky, so blessed by God,
so kissed by divinity?
Some of the country roads had flooded overnight, so the JEEP’s wheels kept
hydroplaning. I maneuvered to her house and pulled into the gravel driveway; a deep mist
had enveloped the place. The trampoline where memories had been forged came up to my
right, and then I drove around the front porch, the swing wildly rocking back and forth in
the gusts of wind; and then something caught my eye, something original—a red CHEVY
truck was parked in the driveway, the rain glinting off of its shiny sides, the wheels caked
in mud, the mist wrapping around the tires. I pulled my JEEP to a stop and stared at the
truck for a few moments, contemplating. My mind jumped to conclusions, but I pushed
them out of my mind. Stepping out of the JEEP, I quickly shut the door and sprinted up onto
the porch, under the overhang, and I went for the door.
It was unlocked.
I had not expected it to be unlocked; I was planning on going through a window so as
not to wake her.
Maybe it’s her uncle’s truck, I thought. She had said something about her uncle coming to
visit from Indiana.
I opened the door and crept inside; the house was hung in a deathly silence. I looked
about the front room laden with couches and pillows and a big-sized television screen. I
went into the kitchen, saw the microwave, the oven, the toaster, the pantries where we had
made all kinds of delicious pastas—she loved pastas. Rain gently tapped on the backdoor
leading to the backyard; I could not see the cornstalks, for the mist blocked my view. The
misty-white fog grew deeper and deeper with each moment, closing in around the house,
forming barricades.
It was then that I began to hear it: noises. At first it was nothing more than a creak,
and then I looked upwards and heard what sounded like laughter. I stood frozen in my
ANTHONY BARNHART
spot, listening attentively; and then came the sound of another type of laughter, one I had
not heard before, and a voice.
It was that of a boy’s.
I quickly turned and made my way to the stairs. I walked quickly, my heart sprinting;
Slow down! I screamed at myself. Breathe! I clenched my fists tightly together and turned
upon the stairwell, gazing up to the second-story landing. The noises were clearer now;
two people laughing: Sammy and another. The blood in my veins reigned, and a brutal
concoction of rage and shock, tinged with a desperate clutch of doubt, overcame me. My
limbs became tired as my muscles strained; I tiptoed up the stairs and found myself facing
Sammy’s closed door. The noises consumed me: the laughter had disappeared, and now I
heard the creaking and the moaning. Mental images hurled themselves at me, and my
mouth went dry. I forced one foot to move in front of the other; all my instincts screamed,
Run! Get out of the house! Forget what has happened! Yet I could not: she was too precious. It
was my love, my adoration, my desire for her that drew me to that door. I touched the
knob, my fingers shaking, and withdrew them. No. You have to do this. You’ve come this far.
The moaning! It ran through me like a cold sword. I gripped the doorknob, and I slowly
twisted. There was a quiet tick; the moaning and creaking stopped. I pushed forward, and
the door slowly opened, revealing a scene that now replays over and over in my mind.
Sammy lay upon the bed, completely naked, covering her breasts with her bare arms
and raising her head to look at me with eyes as wide as saucers. Someone held himself
above her, straddling her; her legs wrapped around his naked waist, and he was inside her.
He looked over at me in complete surprise.
None of us moved:
I stood paralyzed by the door, frozen as if I were a cryptic Mayan statue.
Sammy lied sprawled upon the bed, tears welling up in her eyes.
The boy stared at me with a blank stare on his face.
A wave of shock and numbness swam over me, and I drowned under their clutches.
Spots flashed before my eyes, my temperature skyrocketing. A cold sweat blistered over
my forehead, and all strength dripped from my muscles. No. No. Oh God, no… My mind
raced so quickly that I could not keep up with it. Oh God, oh God, oh God… I stared dumbly
forward; the boy crawled off of Sammy, and Sammy quickly covered herself with blankets,
tears streaming down her face. The boy stood beside the bed, covering himself. None of it
really registered with me: all I knew were the sensations of betrayal, the anger and the hurt
and the blinding pain. I felt as if the back-stabbing drove white-hot needles into my heart,
piercing and tearing to pieces everything I’d ever held dear. The boy started to laugh,
maniacally, and at that I backed out of the room.
I cannot recall my walk across the hall, the descent down the steps; what I do
remember is the boy’s yelling, Sammy’s now-horrendous sobbing, the thunder echoing its
melancholy refrains with such intensity the house shook. Yet the shaking did not compare
to the shaking of my body as I thrust open the door and threw myself out onto the porch; I
collapsed onto my knees, but driven by an insane desire to be free of the prison chaining
my heart, I tried to stand and move forward at the same time. I lost my balance and pitched
ANTHONY BARNHART
forward, crawled off the deck, into the blinding rain, the thick fog. I hunched there on
hands-and-knees, sobbing uncontrollably.
Somehow I managed to stand, and I approached my JEEP, my quivering hands in my
soaked pockets searching for the keys. The red truck stood out to me, an eyesore that even
to this day refuses to leave my mind. Withdrawing the keys from my pocket, I inserted
them into the lock and unlocked the door; I opened it up to hear Sammy’s voice coming
through the storm: “Anthony! Please! Please! Don’t leave! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! Please!”
I turned and saw her standing on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, shivering in the
cold.
A shadow danced behind her, and another figure appeared: the boy. He pushed her to
the side and flicked me off: “Drive home, you sorry mother-fucker!” he hollered, yelling at
the top of his lungs.
I didn’t answer Sammy’s calls; rather, I shut the door and placed the keys into the
ignition, turning them to ignite the engine. It rolled to a start.
Sammy ran off the porch, sprinting to the JEEP. She banged on my window, the tears
crawling down her face mixing with the rainwater. “Please!” she hollered, banging on the
window. “Please! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Call me lesser of a man, but I didn’t want to talk to
her. I didn’t want to face her that day. I had been betrayed. My heart had been taken and
stomped-on and thrown in the dirt. I just wanted to get away and never see her face again,
never hear her voice, never be confronted with the reality of what had been a lie all along.
The drive home was the longest, most agonizing drive of my life. A million thoughts
sprinted through my mind, interlaced with memories of our times together: holding hands
and kissing at the park, asking her to be my girlfriend, comforting her at the fair, lying on
the trampoline, kissing under the stars, all the whispered, “I love you’s,” all of it no more
than a grand lie.
“I love you,” she had told me. A lie.
“I want to grow old with you,” she had told me. A lie.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” she had told me. A lie.
“You’re the one I want to be with forever,” she had told me. A lie.
All of our shared memories, our heaven-sent conversations, all the laughter and
love… All of it came together in the greatest lie—no, the greatest conspiracy—of my life thus
far.
And the thought that Sammy had been the answer to my prayers, and
that Sammy had been sent by God,
that Sammy and I were meant to be together forever, and
that Sammy was the one God had for me all along.
All of this… One great lie. All a lie.
I cried the entire way home.
I remember that I lied in bed the rest of the day as the storms rolled through. A million
questions assaulted me:
How long has she been cheating on me?
ANTHONY BARNHART
What did I do wrong to deserve this?

How did I offend God so much that He took away my first love?
How come I couldn’t give her what she wanted?
Was I not good enough somehow?
I told Amber what had happened; she lied down next to me in the bed and let me fall
asleep in her arms (isn’t that what little sisters are for?). I’m not going to sit here and
pretend that I “took it like a man” and didn’t show any emotion, but crossed my arms and
played the role of someone who did not let life faze him. The truth is, I was devastated. I had
prayed and prayed and prayed for seven years… And the greatest girl came along… And I
thought she was the answer to my prayers. I had danced along the borders of hopelessness
for years, and finally all the waiting—the excruciatingly painful waiting—had paid off. I
had found myself in the arms of a wonderful, fantastic, exciting girl… And then she had
taken my love and treated it like a pile of goat manure. She had used me as a pawn,
extorting my time and energy to bring her a little more of an enjoyable summer. She played
the role she had intended to play, the role of “the answer to my dreams,” my “dream girl.”
The pain I felt was unbearable, and as I cried into the pillow at home, Amber stroked my
hair and whispered in my ear, “It’ll be okay, Anth. It’ll be okay.” She later confessed, “I just
wanted to find Sammy and beat the crap out of her. She’s such an asshole.”
She helped comfort me:
“Who knows how long she cheated on you? It’s not your fault, though: she
used you.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes things don’t work out. It’s life.”
“I don’t think God punished you, Anth. He has someone better for you.”
“She doesn’t know what she wants, Anthony. It’s not your fault.”
“You’re an amazing guy, Anth. You’re a girl’s wet dream.”
Awkward, eh?
When Mom found out, she broke into tears, cried, “My poor baby,” and held me close. She
squeezed me tight: “I’m so sorry, Baby. I’m so sorry.” She cried more than I did! I let her
hold me, and I held her.
Dad took me out to dinner. We didn’t talk much, but he made sure I knew one thing:
“I’m proud of you. You hear me? I’m proud of you. I’m proud of what you’re doing with
your life, and I’m proud of who you are becoming. I look at you, and I say to myself,
‘Thank God he’s not living like I was when I was his age.’ You’re an amazing man who
seeks God’s wills and God’s desires, and He’s going to honor your desire to be a good
husband and a good father. Sammy wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t in the will of God. He
knows you deserve someone better… And in due time, He’ll bring her to you. Be patient,
keep trusting, keep growing. And please remember that I’m proud of you.”
Amber’s words, Mom’s comfort, and Dad’s speech left an impression on me. I spent
some time in prayer that night, and I completely broke down; however, the peace of God
swam over me, and I quickly fell asleep. The next morning I would pack up and head back
to school, rejoining the leagues of young adults who don’t want to be adults and yet
embrace it at the same time.
ANTHONY BARNHART
MOUNT ECHO
That is how my first relationship ended. She had been the so-called “girl of my dreams,”
and following the heart-wrenching encounter, I went through a series of emotions rather
quickly, culminating in a stoic view of romance: “True romance does not exist. I may as
well give up and not even dream—not even think—about ever being a good husband or a
good father.”
When I returned to school—a beautiful campus with a spectacular overlook of
Cincinnati—I expressed to a close friend what had happened and all the emotions I’d been
going through. As he helped me unpack in my room, he said, “Look. I’ve been following
this ‘pity party’ of yours for a while now. Maybe it’s time to stick your head in a bucket of
ice water and get back to focusing on what you’re supposed to be doing, because you have
no idea what you’re talking about?”
I had expected a little bit of comfort, some encouragement… But not that! Needless to
say, I found myself at a loss for words.
He continued, “But it’s okay. You’re young. It’s expected.” As if that was supposed to
help? “This whole ‘her’ thing is a crazy fantasy brewed up in your head. The relationship
you want with ‘her’, this thing you whine about all the time, is hard, hard work. So wipe
your tears, grow a spine and a pair of broad shoulders, because life is hard and you, my
friend, may well have some very heavy lifting to do in life if you are to carry the weight of
others in whatever ‘ministry’ you find yourself. Oh, and about you hearing God ‘talk to
you’? I am sick of people—marveled by them!—who claim to hear God ‘speaking to them’
when really it was last night’s pizza. So onward Christian soldier, because I’m guessing
God isn’t looking for yet another doormat.”
Needless to say, I didn’t turn to him anymore. Our relationship fizzled to an
acquaintance. And I didn’t care one bit. Whatever happened to the law of love and “bearing
one another’s burdens”? Apparently, it didn’t really hold much water with some people
whom I had trusted.
It did not take long for the emotions to swarm over me once more. I had a ritual of going to
a park near the campus: Mount Echo. It held a great amphitheater that always reminded
me—and continues to remind me—of St. Paul preaching in Ephesus. It also boasted a great
overlook of the city of Cincinnati, the winding Ohio River, and a small town in Kentucky,
and it contained a picnic area, a playground, some soccer fields, and a beautiful section of
woods laced with walking trails. I remember going to a certain spot in the woods last
spring, sitting on a fallen tree and smoking cigars while praying. I returned to Mount Echo
the first week of my return, and I sat in the picnic area, trying to avoid the burning heat. I
pulled out a moleskin journal and wrote words that acted as a poetic structure to my
thoughts mixed with a heartfelt, tear-soaked prayer:
ANTHONY BARNHART
My dream, you know, is simple:

a quiet plot of land;
a beautiful, loving wife;
two beautiful blond girls.
She said, “I’ll share with you
in this dream.” And then
she tossed the ring
into the ocean.
Why is this dream so elusive?
Why are our dreams so intangible?
Why do I taste what I desire
only to have it snatched from me?
Why is my life a constant
disappointment, a never-ending
letdown?
Why have I, for all appearances,
been cursed by the gods?
Why must my every day be marked
with suffering, agony, tears,
and empty prayers?
How come my nights are riddled
with fantasies of a dream come true,
always pursued by a waking moment
of pain that haunts me?
Why am I forced to watch God
grant the desires of all my friends’
hearts, as I lay broken and bleeding
on a bed of thorns?
This vast panorama of suffering
through which I am passing
hardens my heart day-by-day.
My heart is becoming cold. Calloused.
My dreams die under a sea of
resignation, and hope becomes
an aspect of the
fantasy-world.
I have wept bitter tears to God,
but He has not heard my prayers;
has not answered my complaints;
has not delivered me from this
deathbed of torment.
Every time I thank Him for a blessing
(or what appears to be such),
ANTHONY BARNHART
it is taken away… even done so

violently at times.
“What is the point,” I ask myself,
“of throwing requests at the
feet of God,
if He is going to turn His face?”
Why must I live this life of sorrow?
Why can’t I enjoy the simple, good
life that I so desire?
I just want my life to end.
If it is going to be this way,
I want it to end.
I don’t know how much more I can take
before I become a skeptic,
hardened by the realities of life.
I am certainly walking down that road.
Tears brimmed in my eyes, but I fought them down (“Real boys don’t cry,”
remember?). I pulled out a DJARUM clove and smoked it, letting the smoke fill my lungs and
exhaling, letting the antidepressants in the chemicals soothe me. The despair and
depression watered down, replaced by a sense of shame: I had written down bitter
complaints to God, completely unthankful for all the wonderful blessings He had given me.
“Why can’t I just enjoy the life God has given me?” I asked myself. “Why must I always
want more and more and more… thinking the entire time that having ‘more’ will lead to
some mystical contentment?” I felt so dirty and rotten that day.
But God spoke to me. Despite the shame I felt in my heart, He spoke to me a few
simple words that I remember very vividly. I bounded the moleskin journal together and
walked over to the overlook. A young couple was cuddling and pointing at the city,
laughing and talking quietly. My insides churned; I had to look away. Don’t be envious.
Enjoy what God has given you. I sat down on a bench and looked out upon the Kentucky
town: baseball fields pressed up against the Kentucky banks, and across the road were
several cottage-styled homes placed close together. I imagined raising a family in one of
those homes and preaching in a small country-town church; kissing my wife as she made
dinner, watching the sunrise with coffee, taking my kids to baseball games. My heart,
again, burned. God… I prayed. God, I can’t take this. Why have You designed me like this?
Please, God. Please. Deliver me from this, okay? I can’t do it on my own. I’m relying on You for this
one. I’ll need a miracle to be with a girl as lovely and spectacular as Sammy. Had I forgotten what
she’d done to me? “Love is blind,” they say. My soul longed for her even then—or did it
long for something—or “someone”—else? Did it long, in truth, for ‘the one’ who would
fulfill my romantic desires?
It was then, smoking a DJARUM clove and overlooking the city, that God spoke to me:
“I have someone for you this year.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
It came in an indescribable way: not a loud burst of audible noise, but a quiet whisper
in my heart, unprecedented and unexpected. A wave of comfort, calm, peace and joy
washed over me, and I extinguished my cigarette, stood up, felt the summer breeze rustling
my clothes, and I smiled—my first smile in such a long time. All the inner turmoil of my
daily existence fell away into nothingness; I returned to my JEEP, turned on the ignition, and
drove back to campus… having no idea that an extremely wonderful girl was moving onto
campus even as I pulled up onto the “Holy Hill.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
ANTHONY BARNHART
CHAPTER THREE
Her Name Is “Beautiful”
“I wished for nothing beyond her smile, and to walk with her thus, hand in
hand, along a sun-warmed, flower-bordered path.”
- Andre Gide
WRESTLING THE LIONFISH
Her tender laughter sweeps through me, a taste of innocence of which no man can resist.
Her eyes sparkle, an ocean full of mystery. She plays with her hair, running her fingers
through the curls, teasing him, inviting him to take hold of the greatness before him and
explore the depths of its secrecy. “What untouchable delicacies lie within? What mysteries
wait to be unveiled? What great truths are waiting to be discovered behind that tempting
smile and those seductive eyes?” His mind reels, his heart hammers, his limbs go quiet and
cold. The warm candlelight dances over her face, a ballet of song and dance, an enticement:
“Come and dance.” Will he dance? Or will he push her away, walk out the door, bowing to
logic and avoiding what consequences might come? His mouth goes dry… logic screams,
“No!” but his heart whispers, “Yes.” What creature can move against its instincts? He is
drawn to her; she has him, and he cannot resist.
He walks into her embrace, and those beautiful arms wrap around him, pulling him
close. He closes his eyes, feeling the tingling warmth of her body pressed against his, her
breath tickling his neck, her hair falling around his face. He can feel her own heartbeat
sprinting: She wants this, too. Her embrace, so sweet and delicate, so extraordinary and
wonderful… He suddenly has no regrets, no second-thoughts. He knows there is no going
back… But that is the last thing he wants. All he desires, all he craves, is to be here, in this
moment, with her.
A soft whisper: “Will you kiss me?”
He does not reply; he presses his lips against hers, and the dance begins. Their hearts
beat in rhythm as their tongues entwine. He explores her mouth, and she explores his.
Butterflies blossom in his stomach, spreading through his limbs—the most wonderful
sensation in the world. He tickles the roof of her mouth with his tongue, then discovers her
lips, the taste of her red lipstick sending shivers down his spine.
She pulls away; he tries to pull her back, but she puts a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
They enter the bedroom, and she goes into the bathroom, quietly shutting the door.
He knows what is happening and offers no fight. He lies in the bed, taking his clothes off;
they feel so heavy, so burdensome, and when they fall to the ground, it is as if a weight has
been lifted off his shoulders. Freedom has embraced him. The sound of the bathroom door
ANTHONY BARNHART
opening wafts over him, the sweet scent of forbidden fruit, and he looks and sees her
coming out, shafts of light from the window dancing over her beautiful figure. His heart
stops in its tracks as her beauty envelopes his eyes; he cannot remove the splendor from her
eyes. She moves around the bed, her hair dappling against her bare, freckled shoulders.
She stands at the foot of the bed and crawls up, and she situates herself above him. Now he
is inside her, and pleasure engulfs him. She moves up and down on top of him; his arms
wrap around her, feeling the warmth of the blood beneath her skin. Her breasts rubs
against his chest as she moves; he feels dizzy and lightheaded from the euphoria. Her eyes
peer deep into his, a conniving smile: “I love you,” she whispers, breathing hard. “I love
you… so… so… so much.”
And I sit in the chair, unable to move, held down by barbed-wire cuffs, watching and
crying as she moves in rhythm with him. She looks over at me, and my heart weeps: Oh
God oh God oh God… The boy beneath moans in ecstasy, and she reaches under the pillow,
withdrawing a blue sword. She is now before me, her hands on my arms bound to the
chair, her groans and screams of pleasure searing me; the sword lies upon the bed. The boy
behind her slides in and out of her at a rapid pace; her breasts shake before me and she
tosses her head back, yelling, “Fuck me! Fuck me!” Sweat drips down her face. Her cries
blend with my own sobs; and then she looks at me, and with a wicked grin, takes up the
sword and drives it through my heart.
And I woke up, sweating and panting, lying awake in the quiet of the dorm room, my
roommate sleeping soundly. The room shook with the sounds of my own beating heart. I
rushed out of the room and ran to the bathroom, fell onto my knees on the tile floor, and
vomited last night’s dinner into the toilet bowl. Tears crawled down my face, and I wept,
“Why, God? Why… Why…” He didn’t answer.
I first learned of Cincinnati Bible College during my junior year of high school; I had gone
to the guidance office to hand a packet of papers to the counselor, but someone had already
been standing at the desk. I took a seat and flipped through some packets of state
universities, still unsold on a particular college. I then heard the student at the desk speak
of an application to Cincinnati Bible College. Upon returning home, I did an internet search
and followed through with some research to discover the ins-and-outs of the college. A
small campus, tucked away in a hill overlooking Cincinnati, close to home, with good
degrees in various types of biblical studies… exactly what I had been searching for. I sent in
my application, and a few days later someone visited my home church—a young man by
the name of John Thomason—and we quickly became friends. He happened to be currently
attending Cincinnati Bible College, and when I was accepted, we became roommates. He
was one of the best friends I’d ever had, a fantastic man who married off in June of the
summer following my freshman year of college.
The college sits on the top of a hill overlooking the city of Cincinnati, Ohio. From the
library, one can see all of Cincinnati spread out like a mosaic; at night, when it’s lit up, it is
quite a spectacle to see. The campus is small, housing only a few buildings: a library, a
chapel building, and a building for classrooms (including the cafeteria and gymnasium),
plus two girls’ dorms and one guys’ dorm. At the time of my sophomore year, there were
ANTHONY BARNHART
only around 400 students living on campus, with about 200 more commuting from various
places around Cincinnati. The campus rests inside the town of Price Hill: a run-down,
ghetto-like town strewn with bars, night clubs, and shanty-homes. Most of the residents are
blue-collar citizens descended from Appalachians who traveled north from Kentucky
decades ago. The town often receives a bad rap because of its crime rates (which are high),
but there is an error in attributing all the crimes to blacks (and not only for stereotypical,
racial issues): oftentimes the crimes were committed by the white folks who were driven to
crime by poverty. At first I feared the town, but then it became home to me. I would travel
up and down the roads in complete comfort. I had evolved greatly from my sheltered life
in Springboro, Ohio to living in the ghettos of Cincinnati.
When not completely overcome by classes, we students would typically go see
movies, go bowling, eat out at restaurants, or hang around the on-campus coffee shop. It
was at the coffee shop that I landed my first job on campus. One of my good friends
managed the place, and he hired me and several other people onto the team. I quickly
became skilled at making the drinks—upside-down caramel macchiatos and caramel apple
ciders (my own invention)—and I worked 8-11 a.m. shifts Monday thru Friday, getting to
know many of the freshmen as they came through each morning for their drinks (usually
ordering various coffees or our Ghirardelli hot chocolates). I made myself busy with school
—working, going to classes [my favorites were Old Testament Prophecy and Basic Bible
Doctrines], and hanging out with friends—but in the quietness of the night, when I laid
myself down to sleep, the whispers of my inner child—the restlessness of a dream turned
sour—would return to haunt me. I would toss and turn many nights, unable to sleep,
tormented by the memories: my beautiful moments with Sammy, followed by my walking
in on her with another boy.
My roommate sophomore year—a young man named Caleb, who eventually joined the
Marine Corps after graduation—comforted and consoled me often, but most of the time it
did no good. I just could not get those memories out of my head: they were burned into my
mind, seared onto my retinas, always before me. “Feelings of resignation and cynicism—
perhaps an odd sort of stoicism—are crowding me,” I told him one night as we lied in our
separate beds. “What if what I desire—to be a good husband and a good father—isn’t a
reality, at least not for me?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Caleb said. “You deserve better than Sammy. You gave her
everything, and she treated you like shit.”
“Maybe I deserved it,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” he fiercely demanded. “No one deserves to be
deceived and cheated on—especially not you.”
“What if I wasn’t good enough? Not adequate enough? Why do girls cheat on guys?
Because the guys they’re supposed to be loyal to aren’t coming through with something.
Somehow they’re just not cutting it. Somehow I just wasn’t cutting it… and so she tried to
cover up my failures with someone else.”
“Anthony. Seriously. Stop thinking like that. She had a bad past and got swept into it.
It’s not your fault.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Everywhere I went on campus, I saw couples together. The freshmen students had a ritual
that had to be kept each year: trying to find a significant other as soon as the school doors
opened. I didn’t mock them for it; I had been the same way my freshman year. At the
beginning of my sophomore year, though, I didn’t want another girlfriend: I wanted
Sammy. I would see those couples together, I would see students hooking up like fish on a
wire, and I would ache for my Sammy. My heart would cry out for her; I would even taste
her sweet kisses in my mouth, would even smell the scent of her perfume, would feel the
smoothness of her skin. At times I would see girls with curly blond hair, and my heart
would leap: Sammy?! But, no, she was up north, far from Cincinnati. She had never called
me following my intrusion, and I refused to call her—even when the temptation burned.
Logic still held some sway somewhere in the back of my mind.
One of the managers of the coffee shop, a kid named Chris, often went with me to an
overlook of the city not far from the campus. At night we would sometimes go there,
especially when finishing up with work. We would sit in the grass and look at the city
lights burning in the smog of industrial pollution, adding to the decrepit ozone with our
clove cigarettes burning between our fingers. We would talk about two things: politics and
girls. He held a liberal view, and I held a conservative view, so talking politics always
devolved into some sort of fencing game. And when it came to girls, we were just as at
odds: he was engaged to a wonderful girl, and the girl whom I thought I would marry had
been cheating on me. As he would take hits off of his cigarette, he would tell me, “You can
get better, Man. I know you don’t believe me. Look at the girl I got. A schmuck like me, so
lucky? You can get better than Sammy. Trust me.” But his words meant nothing—they
seemed hollow, cliché, meaningless. My world had fallen apart, and the best comfort
coming from the lips of those closest to me were simple “It’ll be okay’s”?
I tried to keep my mind off of Sammy by meeting lots of new people. I met a soccer
player named Kyle who had just recently started dating another soccer player named
Elizabeth. They both stood about the same height and looked amazingly cute together. We
would sit out on the patio at night, drinking iced tea and talking about all kinds of things.
In those moments happiness and serenity began to return, though as we would depart and
head to our dorms to sleep, the dark cloud of depression would begin to make its somber
presence known.
At times it felt inescapable; I told Caleb one evening in the cafeteria, “It’s not getting
any better. We’ve been at school for a month now, and I still miss Sammy. If she called
back… I would take her back.”
He glared at me in shock. “Are you serious? I would kill you.”
“I love her, Man.”
“You don’t even know what love is.”
Hadn’t I heard that one before? “Then how come my heart hurts so badly?!”
“Because you were betrayed. You were burned. You were backstabbed. It’d be weird if
your heart didn’t hurt.”
I shook my head. “I liked her so much. She seemed so sweet. So genuine. She was my
dream girl.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “Let me ask you this: when you think about your
dream girl, do you see her cheating on you? Treating your love like dog shit?”
“No,” I said. Quickly, “And I know what you’re saying. It’s not like that.”
“Then please explain it to me, because I’d really like to know.”
“I… I can’t,” I said. “I can’t explain it. You wouldn’t know. You weren’t in that
relationship.”
He sighed. “I love you like a brother, and it’s killing me to see you like this. Why can’t
you just see that she wasn’t good enough for you? Why can’t you just see that she wasn’t
your dream girl like you thought she was?”
“Because… Maybe because ‘love is blind’?”
Caleb stared me down, an imposing figure: “You don’t love that bitch.”
His words ran like a cold sword through me. I quickly stood up and left the table, then
whisked myself out the door. I marched across the parking lot to several benches at The
View, a spot on campus overlooking the city. I felt the warm summer breeze ruffling
through me; I closed my eyes, and the memories swam over me. I don’t know how long I
stood there, but I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. It startled me; I turned and saw Caleb
standing there.
He spoke, “I’m sorry for what I said in there.” Sincerity coated his words.
“No,” I said. “It’s fine. You’re right. I deserve better. She’s not my dream girl. It’s just
that… No matter how much I might believe that… It doesn’t take away the pain I feel. I was
still betrayed. My heart was still stomped on. And a little anecdote of revelation isn’t going
to make it all better again.”
“I know, Man,” he said, not leaving my side. “I know.”
Fall slowly began to creep upon us, the veins in the leaves beginning to bulge and the
temperatures slowly beginning to drop. Fall has always been my favorite time of the year;
some of my best memories have been forged in this season: playing football outside with
friends, going to Halloween parties in the neighborhoods, driving down the streets lined
with the trees bathed in a plethora of golden colors. The changing of the season began to
bring a little relaxation to the life I lived: the seasons were changing, and so was my life. I
begin to taste hope a little more, though in small doses.
On the weekends I would return home to see my family and friends. At times it was a
painful experience, driving past the places where Sammy and I used to spend time
together. Standing in my bedroom, I would remember our countless conversations and the
warmth I felt with her so close. I would often lie awake in bed, suspended from sleep
because of the dredged memories. When the thunder and rain would come, I could hear
her crying out my name and banging on the JEEP window; when the silence hovered like a
ghostly blanket, I could hear the soft moans coming from her room upstairs. I relived that
tragic day over and over. The blood in my veins would turn sour and bitter at the same
time; sometimes the dreams would lead me to the toilet, where I would spit up bile, hoping
it would pass: nothing ever came up, for the pain originated not in my stomach but in my
heart.
ANTHONY BARNHART
One of my friends back home owned a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop where acoustic bands
would come and play on Fridays and Saturdays. I would often go and help him make
drinks when it got busy, or I would meet friends there to hang out and talk. Near the
middle of September I parked on the street and entered the coffee shop; Chad—the
manager—waved me over, and we talked for a little bit. The scent of Indian coffee aroused
me, and he gave me a free drink.
I stood behind the bar and made a few drinks, keeping myself busy, when she came
in. I looked up and didn’t see her at first; perhaps my subconscious mind tried to erase her.
But when I felt her piercing eyes drilling into my skull, I looked up and saw her turn her
head. She stood there with the boy she’d been sleeping with; he came forward to order a
drink, and when he saw me off to the side, he froze. She stood back behind him, staring,
not knowing what to do. None of us made any movements. A cold sweat dribbled across
my brow, and my hands began to shake; Chad looked over and saw that I was virtually
entering a panic attack, and he said, “Anthony, why don’t you take the trash out?”
There was no trash that needed to be taken out; I got the hint. I let the drink go,
turned, and walked out the back door, into the courtyard behind the building, drawing
deep breaths of the cool fall air. I raised my hands and saw them shaking, just as they had
shook the day when I gripped the doorknob. I fumbled into my pockets and pulled out a
clove, lit it up, and drew several deep hits, calming my nerves. I quickly finished the
cigarette and subsequently lit another as the back door opened and Chad joined me. He
pulled out a pack of BASICS and drew out a cigarette.
“It was her, wasn’t it?” he asked, lighting the cigarette.
I nodded. “Yeah.” My voice was shaky. A sadistic chuckle. “Look at me. Look at how
shaky I am. It’s so stupid.”
“No, it’s not stupid at all,” he said. “I’m sorry, if it means anything.”
“It doesn’t,” I said.
“I didn’t think so.”
We stood in silence; dark clouds blurred out the stars, but the moon managed to poke
through.
I asked, “Who do you have watching the bar?”
“Amy and Ryan,” he said. “I told them not to bother us.”
“They probably think I’m in trouble,” I said with a sly grin.
“How could I punish you? You volunteer. You’re not paid staff.”
“Ban me from your shop.”
“I’ll ban the cut-throat if you want me to.”
“Please don’t call her that.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
More quiet moments. Then he spoke up, “It’ll be okay, you know? I know that sounds
so cliché, but clichés are born out of reality. They’re like stereotypes: most of the time,
stereotypes are founded upon some sort of reality, and then they get bent and twisted.
Clichés are born out of realities, and then they get bent and twisted, or overused. In this
case, I’m telling you it will be okay, because it will be. We men have a very unfortunate job:
ANTHONY BARNHART
to throw our lines out there and hope for a catch, knowing that most of the time we won’t
catch a thing, and that when we do catch something, there’s a good chance that it’s
poisonous or malevolent or something like that. You caught a lionfish: one of the most
beautiful fish in the world, but nevertheless one of the most poisonous. You didn’t know it
was poisonous. It’s not your fault. But you still got stung.” He extinguished his cigarette.
“Don’t stop fishing because of one accident. Keep throwing your line out there. Who knows
what you’ll catch next? Maybe you’ll catch something better—the world isn’t full of
lionfish.”
As the temperatures began to decrease more and more, my romantic desires burned. I
found myself going through withdrawal from Sammy: I missed holding her under the
stars, cuddling on the swing, sitting on the bench by the lake at Benham’s Grove. I missed
her laugh, her smile, even the quietness of her contemplation. My heart groaned in an
unfortunate longing. I was alone, and any hope of change seemed ill-placed. Some friends
and I would go down to the Ohio side of the river at night, and as we would sit and smoke
our cigarettes, looking at the glowing neon NEWPORT sign across the river. We would discuss
our struggles, doubts, and share stories.
One night I complained, “Why do all the bad guys get the good girls?” Why did
Jeremy take Sammy and turn her into a slut, a whore, a hollow, cheating skank? “How
come the good girls fall for the bad guys?” How come Sammy missed what was in front of
her—a guy willing to give her his life, his dreams, his all… just to make her happy!—, and
why did she fall for the dark tricks of a sorcerer in prince’s clothing? Nobody had any
answers. I didn’t expect them to. I just had to vent.
One of my close friends, Michelle, cornered me one day and asked, “What’s wrong with
you?” It came off offensive.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“No. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean…” She searched for words. “You’re not yourself.
I see you smiling, I see you laughing… But it’s like it’s forced.” And she was right:
I didn’t have the energy to do anything.
I didn’t have the desire to laugh.
I didn’t have the willpower to be myself.
I often found myself on the brink of tears.
She knew about Sammy; I told her, “It’s nothing,” knowing full-well she’d see right
through my bold-faced, blatant lie.
“It’s your ex-girlfriend, isn’t it?” she asked.
I sighed, nodding. “Look. I’ll be okay.”
“Why don’t we go out for dinner tonight?” she asked.
I looked at her, thinking, What?
She quickly understood my confused gaze: “No! That’s not what I meant!”
“Okay,” I said. “Good.” A gentle laugh shared.
We went out to eat at MCDONALD’S, where I told her everything that had gone down
with my relationship with Sammy, including a graphic description of my “discovery”—a
ANTHONY BARNHART
detailed analysis that showed its pain through a few trickled tears. We finished up our
meals, and she bought us both some MCFLURRIES with M&M chocolates. Her turn to talk
came, and I expected her to tell me what everyone else had told me: “It’ll be okay. Things
will get better. Hang in there.” Or, “She wasn’t worth it. You deserve better. God has a
plan.” But instead she told me her own story… How she had dated someone for two years,
been engaged, then walked in and found him sleeping with another girl… And she still
carried the emotional baggage.
“It was traumatizing,” she told me. “Now I can’t trust people anymore. Especially not
guys. I mean, I know good guys are out there—one is sitting right in front of me—but my
heart refuses to connect. I am still so hurt by what happened. But I’ve forgiven him for
what he has done, and it’s brought a lot of healing into my life. Have you forgiven
Sammy?”
Had I? I opened my mouth to say “yes”, but instead I replied, “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Have I?”
“Are you asking me?”
“I don’t know.”
She shook her head, smiling quirkily. “You’re really confusing me.”
“I don’t know if I’ve forgiven her. How do I know if I’ve forgiven her?”
“You just know,” she said. “And I don’t think you have. You know how I can tell?”
“Because I myself don’t know.”
“Exactly,” she said. “What she did was wrong. It was very wrong. You, Anthony, didn’t
mess up. Don’t take blame for this. The blame rests on her. You’re not being a good
Christian if you take blame for what someone else did—you’re just being a scapegoat.
You’re being a good Christian if you forgive the person who wronged you—and in this
case, that’s your ex-girlfriend. So I would suggest you do a lot of soul-searching and you
forgive this girl, even though it won’t be easy.” With emphasis, “And it won’t be easy. Trust
me. I was angrier than a bull running through a red coliseum, and forgiving him felt like
shoving needles underneath my fingernails. But I did it anyway… And then I realized that
those needles actually healed my heart. Forgiveness heals the forgiver more than it heals
the forgiven. Does that make sense?”
Not really. “Yeah.”
Michelle’s words didn’t leave me. I had taught Sunday School class for several years, and
throughout that time I had taught message duos on God forgiving us and us forgiving
others. I had always thought I would be good at forgiving those who had harmed me, but I
had never been inflicted so much harm by someone so close. I could imagine the shock of
the Roman soldiers and the conspiring religious leaders as Jesus, upon the cross, cried out,
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” How could I forgive Sammy? It
was not a technical question; rather, it was a question of my own willpower: how could I,
someone so traumatized, so beaten, so bloodied, so betrayed, forgive? How could I model
Christ and grant forgiveness when my life remained a mess because of the Hell she had put
ANTHONY BARNHART
me through? All happiness had been sucked from my daily existence because of this one
girl; how could I just say, “It’s okay, I forgive you”? I had no idea.
I caught Michelle outside one of her classes two days later. “How do I do it? How do I
forgive her?”
She seemed rather taken aback, and for a moment didn’t respond. “Maybe it’s
different for everyone?”
I always hated those answers. “How did you forgive your fiancé?”
“Why don’t we talk about this outside?”
We went outside to the school gazebo nestled inside a clump of oak trees. Birds
perched in the rafters as we spoke, adding song to our conversation.
She said, “First, I think, you need to realize of how much you’ve been forgiven by
God.”
“Believe me,” I muttered, “I realize that.” We all have dark skeletons in our closets; I
had a house full of ‘em.
“Then,” she continued, “you need to realize that everyone is human and that everyone
makes mistakes. Are you any better than Sammy? No. She made a human mistake that hurt
you. You will make mistakes, and you will hurt people. We live in a world wet—no, a
world soaked—with heartbreak. Remember what Jesus says about forgiving others? If we
don’t forgive other people, then God won’t forgive us. We need to be grateful for God’s
forgiveness He’s thrown onto us, and out of that gratefulness we need to forgive others.
You need to see that Sammy is human. She isn’t perfect—nowhere close. But she isn’t a
demon, a witch, or a monster. She’s a human. Just like me—and just like you.”
“I know all of this.”
“And you’re still hesitant to forgive… Why?”
“Because I’m so hurt.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s your point, Michelle?”
She leaned forward, looking me in the eyes. “Forgiveness begins as a matter of the
will.”
“I have to decide to forgive her.”
“Exactly. And then you need to live out that forgiveness. Don’t think about what she
did, don’t label her as a bad person because of it, remind yourself of the grace and mercy
God has shown you, and extend that grace and mercy to Sammy—which, relatively
speaking, will be much easier now because you’re not around her anymore. You won’t see
her.”
“And then how do I bring my heart into play with this?”
“I don’t think you do,” Michelle said. “God does. He transforms your heart. And you
experience healing. Does this mean you won’t ever hurt? No. Hell, no. But it does mean that
you can continue to live your life, banking on the promise that God has more in store for
you, that Sammy wasn’t the one. And if she was the one, then she messed it up because she
was out of line with God’s will… And if that’s the case, then God will bring someone else—
someone better—into your life.”
I thought all day about what she had said, and that evening I wrote a letter to Sammy:
ANTHONY BARNHART
I know you didn’t expect this letter from me. I want you to know that you
really hurt me. You can’t imagine the pain you have put me through. I loved
you, Sammy. I would have given up my life for you. I would have given up
everything just to make you happy. Those are the facts, but they are not the
only facts. I also know that you’ve been going through a rough time. You
run around with a rough crowd. You have been in a lot of places and
experienced a lot of pain, and I know that you regret your mistake. I know
we cannot be together anymore. I wrote this letter to let you know that
while I am hurt, God is taking care of me. I will be okay. I forgive you. I
want you to know that. I forgive you. I think you are a wonderful person, but
we all make mistakes. You will be in my prayers. I really care about you.
Once more, I forgive you.
She never wrote me back.
Michelle had a sense of wisdom, carved no doubt by the lightning and thunder of
experience: following the writing of my letter, life became a little easier, day-by-day. I
found myself laughing more, enjoying myself once more, and becoming more confident. I
went on frequent trips to the STARBUCKS at BARNES & NOBLE with Kyle, for we were in several
classes together and both liked coffee; we would sit and *try to* study. Elizabeth began
coming with us, and as I got to know her better, I really found myself connecting. She
became one of the freshmen whom I became good friends with. On Sunday nights, a bunch
of us would go bowling, and eventually Sammy became a memory. At times the pain
would return, haunting me in the dark hours of my sleep, but God soothed the pain, and
when the morning came, I found my energy rejuvenated and a new spirit in my veins.
It would not last long though.
One night at STARBUCKS, as we sat out on the patio after an hour of studying and
discussing theology, prophecy, and philosophy, Elizabeth spoke up: “You know, my
roommate is getting kind of tired of being in the room all the time. She says she wants to
get out and meet new people. I was thinking, since we hang out all the time… Maybe she’d
want to come along? I mean, she’s a nerd and all, and-’’
Kyle said, “That’s fine.” He pointed at me. “Maybe we can even get this fool a date.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m doing quite fine on my own, thanks.”
MIRACLE ? OR MIRAGE?
In the months to come, few a day would pass when I would reflect on this day. It became a
turning-point in my life, a door to a world that I never dreamed possible. With tears
soaking my pillow, I would often shake and wish this day to dawn once more, so that I
could flee into the hills and never see her face in such a light again. I would wish I could
ANTHONY BARNHART
return to this day and do everything over again, not making the same mistakes I did before.
This day is the epiphany of my life; it reigned as a fire-breathing dragon, scorching my
nights and days with an unstoppable inferno that consumed my every moment with
weeping and agony.
The morning held a deceit all its own: birds singing in the trees, sunshine coming in
through my window, and a day free of any responsibilities. I lied awake in bed, smiling,
letting the sunshine touch me, not bothered a bit by the quietness of my soul. I spent the
day hanging out with friends, and around 7:00 that evening, I met Kyle in his room on the
bottom floor of the dorm, and loading into his car, we drove to the front of Elizabeth’s
building. Kyle called her on his cell-phone, telling her he had arrived, and we waited in the
EXPLORER for Elizabeth and her roommate to make their way down. We waited for about
five, maybe ten minutes (Kyle complaining the entire time; “Women!”) before they came
out the front doors. Elizabeth, standing tall with her natural blond hair and slender figure,
was superimposed against a smaller, chubbier girl with light auburn hair curling around
her neck. I found myself instantly attracted (noting the irony of Kyle’s comment the night a
few days ago at STARBUCKS). I tried to keep myself from staring at her roommate’s golden
figure.
As they got into the car, Elizabeth introduced her: “This is Rebecca, guys.”
“We’ve met,” Kyle said.
I looked back and smiled, my face flushing red. “Hi. I’m Anthony.”
“Hi,” she said, the shyness radiant—though not as radiant as her face.
She was quiet the entire time, keeping to herself and to her studies. However, when
we moved out to the patio, she decided to open up a little—especially when Elizabeth
dragged Kyle to look at a book she wanted to buy, something by Nicholas Sparks. Rebecca
and I stood out on the patio, overlooking the river and Cincinnati sprawled along the
opposite shore (for the STARBUCKS rested within the BARNES & NOBLE at the popular mini-mall,
“Newport on the Levee,” the same spot sporting the hailed “Purple People Bridge”). She
drank her hot chocolate, and I sipped a steaming caramel macchiato. The awkwardness
blossomed like flowers in spring, and knowing the ways of the shy—for I had been one
myself not too long ago, cured only by my freshman year of college—I knew I would need
to make initiation if any of the awkwardness were to dissipate—and if any conversation
were to be had.
“So why’d you come to school here?” My question came out rapid and prepackaged.
“I had a scholarship,” she said. And then she was quiet.
“What kind of scholarship?” I asked.
“For Bible Bowl.”
“Bible Bowl? Isn’t that when you go bowling and quote Bible verses?”
She laughed. “No. Not exactly. It’s where you memorize stuff in the Bible and repeat it
at tournaments.”
“So it’s a contest in memorizing the Bible.”
“Yeah.”
An awkward moment. “So… What did you memorize?”
“I memorized the Book of Acts and the Book of Exodus.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Really?!” I asked, amazed. “I could never memorize that much!”

“It’s hard work,” she said. “I had to practice about two hours a day.”
“I can imagine. That’s probably why you’re such a scholastic kind of girl.”
She looked at me, shocked. “Hey!” she jokingly shouted.
“You don’t think I saw you engrossed in your books?” I teased. “I could never study
for that long at a time.”
“Well, that’s why you won’t succeed at life,” she kidded.
We talked for about ten minutes before Elizabeth and Kyle returned. We made our
way back to campus, and as Kyle and I returned to the dorm from the men’s parking lot,
Kyle asked, “So, what did you think of Rebecca?”
“She’s cool,” was all I said.
“Elizabeth said you guys would look cute together.”
Should that have excited me? I’m not sure. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“You’re such a bad liar.”
Rebecca didn’t come with us on our next STARBUCKS adventure a few days later, though I had
eaten lunch with her, Kyle, Elizabeth, and some other friends the day after our first
meeting, sparking some decent conversation. As we studied inside the bookstore, I told
Elizabeth, “So… Kyle says you think Rebecca and I would make a cute couple?”
“Yeah,” she said, looking up from her books. “Are you interested?”
“All I know is that she seems like a pretty cool girl.”
Kyle said, “He likes her.”
I shot back at him, “That’s not what I said at all.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I never said it.” I looked at Elizabeth, found her smiling. “I never said that!” I
exclaimed.
Elizabeth said, “Well, humor is pretty big with Rebecca, and she made a comment
about how funny you were. And she said it was a good funny, not a forced funniness that
some people try to make.”
“So basically she said I’m a funny guy.”
Kyle: “Yeah, pretty much.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Well, I can’t speak for Rebecca, but she’s never been in a
relationship before, so if you’re going to pursue anything, take it slow. Just my advice.”
I continued hanging out with Rebecca as much as I could, being discreet about it:
appearing whenever Kyle and Elizabeth would hang out, bringing Rebecca along. As we
got to know each other better, I began to fall for her more and more. Sammy completely
disintegrated into the background; this girl was fantastic. I had already seen her outside
beauty: those beautiful eyes, the angelic hair, the cutest little dimples, the wonderful figure.
Now I was beginning to see that inward beauty, the beauty that can turn a monster—an
ogre!—into the most splendid of flowers in the plain.
I could not help but see the parallel between the beauty in this… dare I say it,
goddess… and the wonderful woman God showed me in my dream many months back.
ANTHONY BARNHART
Here was a girl so wonderful, so amazing, that I could not believe one such as her ever
existed. She was unbelievable: her love ran bluer than the waters of the Arctic, her
compassion soared with the winds, her selflessness glowed like a torch in a cold winter
night, her humility sparkled like a diamond under a microscope, her peace—oh! the peace I
felt when I was in her presence: all my fears, my pains, everything fell away into the
darkness at the mere sound of her voice. I saw her insurmountable joy, her passion for God,
and the workings of the Spirit of God within her. Something rested unsettled within me: Is
she the one God was speaking of?
I could not keep her out of my mind… nor out of my journals:
September 11, 2006: I am distraught. She is a beautiful girl. I’m not talking
hot or sexy. Swimsuit models are such, but to them I am not drawn; they are
empty and vacant. She isn’t. Her eyes are so deep, her laughter so
wonderful, she holds delightful conversation. She’s beautiful in every sense,
sphere, and angle of the world. An eclectic aura of joy and smiles and
laughter and enjoyment in-the-flesh… This is her! Beauty. It’s not skin-deep.
She has it. Someone has it.
September 14, 2006: I’ve talked to Abby and Jessica about her. I told Abby
how she treats me—overly-nice, lots of attention, laughter—and Abby says,
“It sounds like you’ve got a good chance, actually.”
September 18, 2006: As I get to know her more and more, my attraction to
her increases. She surpasses Sammy in every detail. Sammy is a mere
memory, a fog dissipating behind a recess in my brain. I hope she likes me;
oh, I really do! She is a deep-thinker, an intellectual, she reads a lot, and
she’s extremely funny. She’s sweet, sincere, warm-hearted. She’s everything
a down-to-earth boy could ever ask for… but do I deserve her? No. Of this I
am sure. Will God grant me the grace—will He bless me so extravagantly?
—to call her “my girl”? Oh, I hope so! I truly hope so! She is amazing.
September 20, 2006: I cannot forget her. She is not “hot”, as most would
define the word, though the sound of her voice brings her to the pedestal of
a goddess. We always say, “It’s what’s on the inside that counts,” but until
we experience it, this cliché is just another lofty philosophy we don’t really
believe in. Beauty is not something you see, but something you feel. When
her eyes catch mine and she smiles, I am riveted, floored, captivated.
Something unseen but felt pierces me, and I shudder in ancient longing. Not
a longing to kiss or to embrace, but a longing to just drink from that
splendid cup of beauty once more! Amidst this sea of beauty and archaic
longing is an unfathomable question that only one individual in the entire
scope of humanity is fit to answer: has she felt such desire towards me? Her
ANTHONY BARNHART
actions, my friends say, dictate yes! Could she now be journaling about my
deep and bottomless eyes, my glowing countenance, peace and joy? Could
she be dropping her pencil, shaking her head, and thinking, No way he could
ever like me. No way at all—I’m not pretty like those cheerleaders. Could she? I
wish I could just see inside her head! It is a risk, such a deep risk, but I must
find out! Everything I have hoped for across the entire spectrum of the last
few weeks may be dashed to rocks with one simple sentence: “I like you.” Is
it worth the risk? Yes.
Elizabeth did her best to keep me informed. “You’re leaving quite an impression on her,”
she told me. “While I’m not 100% sure she likes you, I do know that she mentioned you to
her mom. She’s really close to her mom.”
“Do you know what she said?”
“No, not really,” she replied.
“Well, that’s a good thing, right? That she mentioned me to her mom?”
“Ummm… Yeah,” she said, laughing.
Michelle kept seeing me and Rebecca together. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
she teased. “Something having to do with Elizabeth’s roommate?” A crooked smile danced
over her façade.
“I’m not hiding anything,” I told her nonchalantly. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, unable to be fooled. “For now, at least, huh?”
Honestly, “I don’t know.”
“But you like her.”
“Yeah,” I said, dousing my answer with a subtle wink. “You know I wouldn’t lie to
you about that.”
She grinned, her eyes dancing. “Oh, that’s so sweet! You two would make such a cute
couple! You’re the perfect pair!”
A few days later, Elizabeth told me, “So Rebecca talked about you to her friends at her
home church. She said good things.”
“What good things?!” I asked, my heart dying to know.
She shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”
“How can you not know?!” I exclaimed.
“I wasn’t there,” she said. “I didn’t go to church last week.”
“You know you’re tormenting me, right? You’re killing me.”
She grinned. “Oh, I know. But keep chasing. Girls like to be chased.”
When I told Amber about Rebecca, she laughed. “I think the best part is when you’re trying
to figure out whether or not the other person likes you. It’s so mysterious!”
“You like that?” I exclaimed as we stood in the kitchen one weekend. “It’s hell!”
Yet the hell didn’t keep me from spending as much time with Rebecca as possible, getting
to know her as much as I could. We ate lunch together, sat on the hill overlooking
ANTHONY BARNHART
Cincinnati and talked for hours, shared good conversation at STARBUCKS. Our friendship
quickly grew, and I found that I could be open and honest about her with everything. She
was likewise; we went over our pasts, our faults and failures, sharing the innermost parts
of our beings. No stone was left uncovered. At first, I’ll be honest, it was terrifying: I now
knew what Sammy must have felt when she first confessed her former exploits, for now I
feared that something I would say might throw Rebecca off-course, completely turn her off
to me in every way, shape, and form. Many times fear gripped me—the kind of fear a child
experiences when boarding a roller coaster for the first time—but I refused to let fear grip
my life and hold me in a vice.
She began inviting me places, and Elizabeth told me, “She’s inviting you to go places
with her? Wow! That’s seriously… shocking. I mean, Rebecca has never invited a boy to do
anything with her before. Now she’s asking you to go to concerts, go to bookstores, go on
simple tasks with her—runs to the bank and such.” She had shaken her head; “I think
you’ve got quite a good chance of something actually working out, Buddy.”
I sure hoped so.
Rebecca and I hung out nearly every day for hours straight. When the fall rains were kept
at bay, we would often drive off campus and go to the park to talk or browse the shops at
Newport on the Levee: HOLLISTER, HOT TOPIC, PAC SUN. She would always try on new clothes
and complain about how the stores catered to the “swimsuit” girls; I would tell her that
few boys are actually attracted to those stick-and-bones skeletal women, and that I thought
she was pretty. She would smile and thank me for the compliment.
I borrowed a book from a friend on how girls flirt with guys, and I tried to see if she
fit the bill for flirting with me. Disappointingly, I found that the flirting was nearly
nonexistent. Elizabeth comforted me, “She doesn’t know how to flirt, Anthony. She’s never
been in a relationship before. She’s never liked someone before. So if she does like you, I
doubt she really knows what to do with it.” I told her that I heard flirting comes naturally
to girls. She laughed and said, “Maybe. I don’t know.” I didn’t see how she couldn’t know
whether or not it came naturally to girls. She continued, “If it does come naturally, and
Rebecca really does know how to flirt, maybe she’s not flirting because she doesn’t want to
flirt with you—not because she’s uninterested, but because she’s shy and doesn’t want to be
awkward.” She had shrugged. “I really don’t know, to tell you the truth. Just keep chasing.
That’s all I can really tell you. I don’t know what’s going on in that mind of hers.”
I decided to take it to the next level: next weekend I would invite her to hang out with
me in my hometown. If she said yes, I figured that’d be a good indication that there might
be some mutual attraction. If she said no… Well, I would continue chasing (hopefully
without becoming stalkerish).
That weekend, Amber and I, along with some friends, sat out on the curb outside the local
STARBUCKS. Open packs of CAMEL TURKISH ROYALS lied scattered along the concrete, and the
smoke raised from lit cigarettes reflected like diamonds the light from the full moon. The
coffee cup in my hand was growing stale; I had lost all taste for it, consumed—“plagued”
would be a better word, I think—by terror. Rebecca lived near my hometown, and she had
ANTHONY BARNHART
made a comment that Friday at lunch, sad because she did not have anything to do that
weekend. I told my sister this, and she exclaimed, “Anth! She’s hinting at you asking her
out on a date!” She and one of my friends—Chris—did their best to convince me to call her
and ask her out on a date. I kept pushing them away: I remember well sitting in Amber’s
room, being hounded by she and Chris, telling them to be quiet, telling them that I knew
what I was doing (though, in hindsight, I must confess I had no idea; this was an entirely
different situation than that of Sammy). Somehow they had convinced me to call her as we
sat on the patio at STARBUCKS that night, smoking and reading obscure poetry as we did
nearly every weekend. Except this weekend I didn’t care about haikus or stanzas, nor did I
care about the money I wasted as I downed cigarette after cigarette, fighting off the
nervousness chewing me away inside-out. It felt as if it were buried in the marrow of my
bones, a nervousness that made me sick.
One of my best friends, Ashlie, saw me. “Anth. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You’ve smoked, like, sixteen cigarettes. You’re a chain-smoker. Right now.”
I glared at her. “I’m fine, okay?”
Amber made herself present, speaking up: “He’s calling a girl in a little bit.”
“A girl?” Ashlie asked, confused. “What girl? I haven’t heard about a girl?” Now the
glare was directed at me. “What girl?!” she demanded.
“It’s just a girl from school,” I told her.
“Omigosh,” Ashlie whined. “Ugh! How come no one ever tells me anything?!”
She had me fill her in on Rebecca, then she said, “So when are you going to call her?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“How about now?”
“No. Now is… not a good time.”
“Why not?” she asked. “Why isn’t it a good time?”
“Because… Because I’m nervous. Nervous as hell.”
“Oh, and that’s going to magically disappear,” Ashlie piped. “You must call,” she said
matter-of-factly.
“I will,” I said. “I promise.”
“Call her now,” Ashlie said, standing before me, eyes afire.
A civil war raged within me: every part of me wanted to call Rebecca and ask if she
wanted to hang out tomorrow, but at the same moment, ever fiber of my being screamed,
“No! No! No!” Why the tension? I wanted Rebecca so badly, so madly, but at the same time,
the terror of being hurt—rejected and spit-out—overcame me. I just stared back into
Ashlie’s emblazoned eyes, and then I turned and walked away, my reflection dancing in the
tall windows of the STARBUCKS. I passed a group of teenagers strumming guitars, singing
soft, melodious sonnets:
“I want you to want me,

I need you to need me,
I’d love you to love me,
ANTHONY BARNHART
I’m begging you to beg me…”
I looked inside the STARBUCKS windows and saw couples huddling over cups of
steaming coffee, lost in each other’s eyes, talking late into the night. I closed my eyes and
saw Rebecca and I sitting inside the coffee shop, close to one another, engulfed in one
another… oh! how my heart burned. I opened my eyes, trying to push off the feelings, but
it seemed impossible to do.
“Why did I have to like her so much?”
“Why did she have to captivate me so fully?”
“Why did I find myself enraptured by this girl?”
“Why did she tease me with her beautiful eyes and splendid laughter?”
“Why did I not have the confidence to just call her?”
But who in their right mind would dare telephone an angel?
I don’t remember how it happened, but the phone reached my ears, and I could hear it
ringing. Oh God, I thought. Oh God, you just called her! It rang again. And again. Thank God.
She’s not going to answer. Then, “Hello?” That sweet, angelic voice that would melt even
hearts of petrified stone!
“H-Hi,” I stammered. And then I was quiet.
An excruciating pause. Then, “Is this Anthony?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Yeah.”
“How’d you get my number?” she asked, confused.
Panic! “Uh… Elizabeth? Yeah, Elizabeth gave it to me.”
Silence. “Oh.”
Awkward pause! “Anyways… I was wondering, since you don’t live too far away, if
you’d want to do anything tomorrow? It’s Saturday, and we don’t have school, and we’re
pretty close to one another—geographically-speaking, I mean—so I was thinking we could
hang out. Maybe go and get some coffee or go to a bookstore. You like books, don’t you?”
My words ran as quickly as a stallion around a racetrack.
She calculated in her mind… It seemed to take a thousand years! “Sure. I guess.”
She had agreed! A flood of relief swept over me. “Cool,” I said, trying to come off as
placid as could be mustered. “When and where would you like to meet?”
“Do you know where the DAYTON MALL is?”
“I’m actually looking at it right now,” I said, turning and looking across the street. Its
lights glowered in the darkness.
“Oh. Well, how about we meet at the STARBUCKS near it? Do you know where that is?”
I grinned, standing under its portico. “Yeah. I know where it’s at.”
“Okay. How about 12:30?”
“Is that in the morning or in the afternoon?” I mentally slapped myself. “Sorry.”
An innocent laugh. “It’s fine. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye,” I said. I hung up the phone.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I walked back to where Ashlie and Amber sat on the curb, my shoulders thrown back and
my face glowing like a lion.
“Let me guess,” Amber mused, seeing me approaching.
Ashlie jumped off the curb. “She said yes, didn’t she?!” she exclaimed.
“It’s not a date,” I said in defense of what I knew them to be thinking. “We’re just
hanging out.”
“Say what you want!” Ashlie exclaimed. She embraced me. “Aww, Anthony, I’m so
happy for you!”
“Not as happy as I am,” I said. She could feel my heart beating in my chest. It’d felt
like I’d just survived the trenches in World War One. My first date with Sammy had not
even been close to the anxiety of simply asking this girl to hang out in innocent fashion! Boy,
I had fallen for the girl, that one I could not deny. She had me enamored head-to-toe.
I pulled the JEEP into the driveway a little after 5:00, and I walked into the kitchen through
the garage to find Ashlie and Amber grilling chicken on the George Foreman. They both
spun around as I entered, and a look of excitement danced in the air. Before I could shut the
door to the garage, I found myself in the middle of a barrage of questions, each one
slurring together so that I couldn’t begin to answer before another question rammed into
me. Finally I held up my hand and exclaimed, “Guys! Take a breath, okay?”
Ashlie demanded, “Tell us everything! You have to!”
I responded, in classical guy fashion, “There’s not much to tell.”
Amber had forgotten all about the chicken. “Anth. Your eyes are twitching. Your eyes
twitch when you lie.”
Caught red-handed. Left with little room to back out, I told them everything, starting
with me sitting in the parking lot at STARBUCKS and ending with us leaving BARNES & NOBLE.
We’d spent nearly four hours together, and the time had gone by too fast. I already found
myself missing her, especially missing her cute, poignant laugh, the gentle chuckle that
could soothe even the most horrendous of storms. That quiet, tender, innocent laugh would
haunt my dreams for months, speaking an uncountable volume of despair and
hopelessness into my existence. As I stood in the kitchen and spoke of our day together, I
bathed in an ignorance of what the future had in store; to me, at least, the future seemed
somewhat bright—or at least something shimmered on the horizon of my desert-life, and I
hoped and prayed and wished every moment that it was in fact something tangible,
touchable, not only a mirage, something imagined in the desperate hopes of the mind’s eye.
I hoped it was a miracle—that’s the only word that could depict what being with Rebecca
would be.
“She ordered a hot chocolate,” I told them. “She doesn’t like coffee.” They asked about
what we talked about. “All sorts of things,” I said. “I don’t know, the conversation just
guided itself. I mean, it’s not like we just had small talk the whole time. We talked about
things going on at school, the classes we’re taking, what we want to do with our lives. She
wants to be a teacher someday—first grade, she says—and I want to be a a teacher, but you
already knew that. Ummm… both of us want to get married and have kids and raise a
family. Simple stuff.” They kept hounding me with questions. “We talked about our family
ANTHONY BARNHART
lives, too. I talked about you guys a lot. I told her my best friends were my little sister and
this tiny girl with a head shaped like a peanut.” Ashlie didn’t find that one too funny; her
nickname in junior high had been “peanut-head.” I continued, “She was orphaned as a kid,
born to a family that was falling apart, and she was put into an orphanage. A Christian
couple adopted her when she was just two years old, so she grew up in a Christian home
and has pretty hardcore conservative values—which I do as well, nonetheless.” How long
did you spend at STARBUCKS? was one of their many questions. “About two hours,” I told
them; “Then we went to BARNES & NOBLE. She really likes classic books. I mean, she loves
them. Her favorite is Moby Dick. She’d never read 20,000 League Under the Sea so I bought
it for her—I read it when I was a kid, and I really liked it. We hung out there before we both
left.”
What I didn’t tell them was one conversation Rebecca and I had shared while sipping
our coffee.
Rebecca had said, “Everyone at school is dating somebody, and it just scares me.”
Red flags went up in my mind, my ears began to warm with an embarrassed heat
(Does she know?!), but I played it cool. “What do you mean?” I’d asked. “Dating isn’t a
plague or anything.”
“I guess it’s just that this whole ‘college’ thing scares me. We’re here getting education
for a career. We’re adults now. We’re in the real world—and if we’re sheltered by school, it
won’t be long until we’re really submerged in real life. It just scares me. And dating scares
me because the obvious reason for dating is to find someone who is suitable for you to
marry—especially at a Christian college. You know the joke: girls come here for the M.R.S.
degree. They come here just to find a good husband who will be a pastor so they can be
pastors’ wives. It just frightens me, the idea of rushing into a relationship with marriage on
the brain.”
I could see her point, though it reminded me of moments with Sammy when I had
longed for nothing else than to marry her. I told Rebecca, “Who knows, though, you know?
Maybe these girls will get lucky and find that ‘special boy’, and they’ll get married and live
happily ever after. My dad married my mom after knowing her for three months. Three
months! And both of them are as happy as can be.”
“The United States has the highest rate of broken families in the world. I think your
parents are the exception.” She had shaken her head. “I’m not against being in a
relationship with someone I like, though, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that…” She had
chuckled to herself. “New topic, please? I’ve confused myself.”
It was obvious from that point on that Rebecca and I were playing two different
ballgames. She was fumbling around in the dark, confused and not really sure of where she
was going when it came to relationships. I knew what I wanted—I wanted marriage. I
wanted to get married, to be a good husband and a good father, and to raise a family. That
was the greatest desire I could ever have, and it was a desire that haunted me. Rebecca did
not share this desire, and as we sipped coffee together that Saturday afternoon, the
electrical currents in my brain went into overload. I wanted this girl so badly—I wanted to
hold her, kiss her, tell her that everything was okay and that I would always be there for
ANTHONY BARNHART
her. But what did she want? She had no idea. She was sailing the ocean without a compass.
Yet despite this red flag, I kept pursuing her, even though the golden rule in relationships is
“Find Someone Who’s Where You Are.” Golden Rules amounted to nothing in my book—
all I knew was the passion burning in my heart.
On Monday after work, I went into the back room of the coffee shop and clocked out; as I
left, Kyle met me. Amid the din of students studying at tables and grabbing lunch, he said,
“Okay, I have some interesting news for you.” My ears tuned in, the background noise
vanishing; I somehow knew this had to do with Rebecca. “Apparently, Rebecca has known
for weeks that you like her. Elizabeth told me that she mentioned it the other day. So I’m
guessing she’s just waiting for you to pop the question.”
“What question? To be my girlfriend?”
“What?! Dude, no. You’ve got to be smart about these things. You need to ask her if
she wants to go out on a date with you.”
“Where would we go?”
“How should I know? Make something up. But be wise about it.”
“Thanks for not being vague.”
“What I mean,” Kyle explained, “is you need to ask her to go someplace where you
guys can talk. Going to a movie isn’t the best first date, especially for her—someone who
has never dated before.”
When I got back to the room, I asked Caleb what he recommended date-wise. He threw out
some good suggestions, but he saw a façade of concern etched over my face. “There’s
something you’re not telling me,” he said. “Spit it out.”
A pause as I repositioned myself on my fold-out bed. “Do you think I have a chance
with her?”
“What? Dude, of course I do.”
“I hope so. I really hope so. It’s just that… I mean, I look at myself in the mirror and
wonder how a girl such as her can find any interest in a weird, random, clumsy,
unattractive boy such as myself. We’ve been hanging out, and I think she’s been flirting
with me in her words and tones, but something deep inside me refuses to believe it. I just
fear she is too good for me, that I am stupid for thinking I could ever be with her, even
momentarily. I see how awesome she is, how beautiful is—how great she is—and I just can’t
believe that she’d have anything to do with a guy like me.”
Caleb shook his head. “Dude. Seriously. You’re riddled with insecurities.”
“Kyle told me Rebecca has known for weeks that I like her.”
He nodded, thinking. “And last weekend you guys hung out at your place, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It was totally innocent, though.”
He didn’t believe me; I didn’t believe myself, either. “She wouldn’t have agreed to
hang out with someone who likes her… unless she likes the person back.”
I could not sleep well that night, lost in anxiety over Rebecca. The “signs” were very
vibrant that she liked me, but I remembered several instances in the past where girls had
ANTHONY BARNHART
acted that way towards me and had zero interest in me whatsoever. Besides, Rebecca was so
adorable, too adorable for me to call her my girlfriend—or even to go out on an innocent
date! When I woke up the next morning, my romantic life felt like a desert: it’d been too
long since I’ve held a girl, kissed a girl, consoled a girl. I itched for that intimate connection
so deeply.
In one of my classes, Rebecca sent a text to me over her cell phone and asked if I
would like to go to a concert with her. I told Elizabeth that I was going, and she said, “Well,
I think tonight would be a good night for you to tell her that you have feelings for her. I’m
pretty sure she already knows. Maybe you guys could go out to dinner or something and
talk about it? I’m not sure. But I think tonight would be a good night.” Kyle agreed.
Michelle had an on-campus job cleaning the bottom of the auditorium two nights a week; it
was filled with classrooms and offices that were used throughout the week. I crept into the
auditorium through the back door, made my way down the steps, and following the sound
of the vacuum cleaner, found Michelle in one of the classrooms. Her back was turned
towards me. I stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost. She casually turned,
listening to her IPOD—and when she looked up, seeing a shadowy figure standing in the
dim basement light, she dropped the vacuum and screamed. It hit the floor with a bang
and turned off, which mixed well with my cacophonous laughter. Her face burned red with
a mix of anger and humiliation. Mostly humiliation.
“How did you get in here?!” she demanded, panting heavily. “You scared me a little bit!”
“A little bit?” I mused. A nod behind me: “You left the door unlocked again.”
She scowled. “Every time I forget, something happens.”
“You’d think that’d help you remember to lock it.”
She bent over and picked up the vacuum cleaner. “I’m imagining you didn’t come here
just to keep me company as I clean?”
“You’re quite right,” I said. “Rebecca and I are going to a concert tonight. She invited
me.”
“Really? Moving up in the world. Congratulations.”
“I’m thinking tonight I’ll ask her out on a date… or at least tell her I like her.”
“And you want my opinion?”
“You know a lot about girls. You’re very observant. You can read them like a book.”
She nodded. “Yep. You want my advice?”
“Ummm… I just said that, Michelle.”
“Take things slow. She’s a quiet, shy girl, and she won’t want to rush anything. Focus on
the friendship—it’s more important than anything, especially for an introverted person like
Rebecca. If things work out and you guys date or whatever, just go slow. Keep the
friendship alive. She likes you as a friend, and if she likes you as more than that, it’s on top
of friendship. Friendship is the foundation. If you get too involved romantically, in the
sense that the friendship becomes skewed, vague, or even nonexistent… well, then, you’ve
lost her.”
“So, pretty much, go slow.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Pretty much.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Thanks,” I said with a wink.

Michelle demanded in a glowering voice, “Don’t wink at me.”
I stood outside of Rebecca’s dorm, the gentle fall breeze tugging at my clothes. A few bare
clouds passed over the moon, then left it unveiled, just as a bride strips herself of her
wedding dress on the night of her honeymoon. I had tried to eat dinner after my
conversation with Michelle, but my stomach wouldn’t allow it. The butterflies I’d felt in my
stomach on my first date with Sammy—well, my first date ever—were nothing compared to
this: it felt as if my bowels were being torn apart by parasitic worms. My back faced the
dorm and my eyes looked out across the quad, where several students threw a glow-in-the-
dark Frisbee back and forth. Some other students were huddled on the curb, talking quietly
amongst themselves with sudden bursts of laughter—I remember this day so well. I heard
the door behind me opening, and I quickly turned, saw her standing there, dressed in tight
jean pants and a button-up shirt. Her hair curled at the base of her neck, the moon reflected
in her eyes, and her pouty lips danced as she said, “I’m glad you could come.” This was my
first taste of paradise.
A NIGHT I’LL ALWAYS REMEMBER
Rebecca had the directions to the concert, and though I had offered to drive, she refused
(“You’re a scary driver,” she had told me with a brilliant laugh). We navigated through
Price Hill and got onto the I75 interstate; we drove north for a while, talking under the
cloudy, moonlit skies. We got lost once and nearly missed the concert hall, but she was able
to backtrack and find the place. The concert was free, so we went inside and found a seat
near the far left. Before the concert, we sat and joked around, trying to convince one
another that the other person was the weirdest between us. She eventually won out,
pointing out that she does not know anyone else who makes random animal noises or runs
down the hallways acting like a dinosaur. I couldn’t really find a way to top that one. We
laughed about that as the concert hall darkened, and as the band came out, we silenced
ourselves for the entire show.
Let me be quite frank here: while the musical artists were excellent (I remember
finding many of their lyrics moving and the melodies invigorating), my interest was not
upon the musicians but upon the girl sitting next to me. My eyes kept wandering down to
her hands, those warm and inviting hands with their delicate fingers. I could smell the
gentle wafts of her lavender perfume; the scent ran through me like a firebrand. The entire
time went by amazingly quick; I was lost in a sea of thought that refused to be quenched (I
did not want it to be quenched). I kept wondering what would happen if I gently caressed
her hand with my finger or took her hand up within my own; I kept pondering how she
would respond: would she return the favor or be absolutely repulsed? My heart pounded
at the thought of such a sensual embrace. Just to hold the hand of a goddess was a thought
my soul thrilled at.
ANTHONY BARNHART
After the concert, we headed back to the campus. We talked about how much we liked the
different bands and had some small talk. By this time our friendship was well-founded, so
it was not awkward at all. Indeed, this was not something I would have called a date. We
maneuvered onto the campus.
I asked, “Would you like to go to the coffee shop and get some hot chocolate?”
“Sure,” she said. “I need to go to my room first. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll just meet you down there.”
I went into the coffee shop before she was there. Kyle and Elizabeth sat in one of the
couches beside the windows. I walked over, and they could see the nervousness pulsing
through the veins in my neck.
“You’re doing it tonight?” Kyle asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
Elizabeth grinned. “Good call. What are you going to say?”
“I’m not sure. What do you suggest?”
She coached some words for me, and Kyle suggested, “Why don’t you buy her a
drink?”
“Good idea,” I said.
I purchased a drink and left the coffee shop, meeting Rebecca as she descended the
steps beside the hill. I raised her hot white chocolate, said, “I went ahead and bought it for
you.” She grinned, said thank you, and took it. I stammered, “Why don’t we go sit on the
hill? Overlook the city?”
“Sounds good to me,” she said.
We sat on a stone wall that peered over the guys’ dorm. I tried not to let the awkwardness
consume me, and I did an okay job. However, I could tell that she was feeling rather
awkward herself, for she had not spoken at all—and she’d barely sipped her hot chocolate.
We looked out at the city glowing in the distance, the rising skyscrapers and the bridges
crossing the river, lit with the splendid lights of cars crossing back and forth between
Kentucky and Ohio. Giant spotlights lights from the Cincinnati-Northern Kentucky Airport
danced in a ballet amidst the stars.
Finally I spoke, breaking the silence: “I’m sure you’ve noticed that something is up.”
“It hasn’t escaped my attention,” she said after a moment.
“The truth is,” I said, “I have feelings for you. I like you.” My heart hammered
between my ribs, sprinting with such a force that I wondered if it would not explode
outwards and kill me altogether. I wondered if this is what a heart attack felt like;
adrenaline gushed through my body, and I felt completely powerless to stop it.
She remained quiet for a while—five minutes, maybe—then said, “No one’s ever told
me that before.” Forty-five minutes passed as we sat on the hill; I let the silence come, as
Elizabeth had told me a day earlier, “She’ll be really quiet and won’t say much. That’s just
how she is, don’t take it the wrong way.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
I told Rebecca, remembering the coaching words of her roommate, “I’d like to take
you out sometime. Nothing fancy. You don’t have to answer now. Think it over, then let me
know, okay?”
“Okay,” she said.
Curfew came and she had to go. “I’ll see you later,” I told her.
“Bye,” she said in a quiet voice, ascending the steps to her dorm.
I sat on the hill and sipped my coffee, thinking to myself, Well, that was that. Now we’ll
see what happens. Oddly enough, I felt an odd peace about it: Everything is going to work out
beautifully.
AN EVOLVING ROMANCE
I didn’t sleep too much that night; my nerves remained jostled from the pulse-pounding
experience on the hill. Telling a girl you like her is one of the scariest things in the world. I
took a walk around the dormitory, sleepless, and I found my friend Amos working on
homework in the first floor lobby. I joined him and told him what had happened. He
confessed, “When I told Claire that I liked her, it was the scariest moment of my life. You
think it will be easy, and you feel so confident about it right beforehand, but when you’re
sitting there with her… It’s Hell, dude.” He was right. I finally fell asleep on one of the
couches in the lobby (while not meaning to!) and missed work the next morning. The
supervisor wasn’t too happy, and I got a write-up, but I didn’t care. I already had a lot on
my mind.
I called Rebecca and asked if she wanted to eat with me before she headed home for
the weekend. I said, “If you don’t want to, that’s cool. I understand last night came as kind
of a surprise.”
“No, it wasn’t a surprise,” Rebecca said. “I knew you liked me.”
Elizabeth had been right! “Oh. Well. Do you want to eat lunch with me?”
“I would love to,” she said.
We met in the coffee shop, ate some fresh deli sandwiches, and talked about all sorts of
things. The conversation turned to last night, at Rebecca’s initiative, and she said, “I’ve been
thinking, and I do like you, but I’m afraid of losing the friendship we do have. I don’t want
to risk such a great friendship. You’re one of the only friends I have on this campus, except
for Elizabeth and Kyle, and I don’t want to lose that.”
I had no question in my mind that she was being honest with me. “I understand,” I
told her, “but I don’t think we can let risks decide how we live our lives. If we let risk reign
over our actions and decisions, we’ll never taste the victories in the opportunities that
present themselves. We’ll be the quiet and timid souls that never know victory nor defeat…
as Theodore Roosevelt said, I do believe.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Rebecca went home for the weekend, and that night Michelle and I went to grab half-price
appetizers from APPLEBEE’S. Michelle said, “I really hope you two date! You guys are so cute
together!”
I asked her for some feminine advice on how I should handle the current situation as
Rebecca struggled to decide whether or not she would want to go on a date with me. She
paused for a moment, dipping a nacho into a lump of melted cheese on her plate, and then
she looked up and said, “She’s never had a boyfriend before. If anything happens, you’ll be
the first one. This is all new to her—this whole relationship thing, not to mention a boy
even liking her!—and on top of all this, she’s afraid to take risks. You definitely shouldn’t
press the issue, but you should ask maybe every day or so what she’s thinking. Calmly talk
about it with her, non-confrontationally.”
I nodded as I chewed some of my boneless barbecue chicken. “Okay. I can do that.”
Michelle grinned. “I think you’ll be all right. I have a good feeling about this.”
“And by ‘this’ you mean… me and Rebecca?”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
I stroked the curves of my iced Mountain Dew. “Do you usually have good intuition
about these things?”
“Yeah. Except for my last relationship. He cheated on me while we were engaged.”
“Well, hopefully things work out a little better for me than they did for you.”
“Agreed,” she said.
The next week came, and Rebecca and I hung out for several hours each day. On Monday I
asked her if she’d done any thinking, and she said, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but
I’m not sure yet. I’m sorry.” I told her it was fine, to take her time and to feel no pressure
(though the pressure upon me was overwhelming; I didn’t want to have come this close to
an angel only to see her take flight and soar away!). Amber knew that I had “popped the
question,” and she called everyday for news. I told her Wednesday night, “Rebecca and I
ate lunch together and sat on the hill, just talking for three hours.”
“Did you ask if she had made up her mind yet?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t think it was a very good idea.”
“Good,” she said. “You’re getting smarter. Not scaring girls off all the time.”
“What in the world is that supposed to mean? When have I ever scared a girl off?”
“Do you remember Jennifer Grey?” she asked.
My stomach curled. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Calling her over and over and then telling her that the moment you saw her you fell
for her, well, that will scare off a girl. Pretty quickly.” She said before I could respond, “But
you’re not like that now. You’re more… what’s the word I’m looking for…”
“Mature?”
“Civilized.”
Whatever. I’d take it.
More days went by, and I still had no idea what brewed in that mind of hers. For two
weeks she had known that I’d liked her (even before I “popped the question”), and she’d
ANTHONY BARNHART
continued hanging out with me. Was she doing it just for attention? She didn’t have many
friends; what if she wanted to drag it out as long as possible, without becoming a couple,
just so she could have someone to spend time with? But I also remembered that now, even
after me “popping the question”, and while she hadn’t given an answer, she was still
willing to hang out, and she would still invite me places. I decided not to push for an
answer; she was a very quiet, shy, introspective girl, and I thought it would be a good idea
for her to think these things over. If we did end up dating, I wanted to take things slow.
On Friday night, a bunch of us gathered in the STUDENT LIFE lounge to play cards, talk, watch
television, and hang out. Rebecca and her roommate Elizabeth, along with Kyle, came and
joined us. We relaxed on the couches, sprawled out and talking. I looked over to Rebecca
sitting across from me and asked, “Want to go for a walk?” She agreed, and we soon found
ourselves walking in the cool autumn night. The stars barely glowed through the smog of
the city; we sat on the stone wall overlooking Restoration Dormitory with the city lights of
Cincinnati sprawled before us like a mosaic of twinkling candles.
I drew a deep breath and asked, rather nonchalantly, in a break in the conversation,
“Have you done anymore thinking? About you and me? Going on a date, I mean?”
Instinctively I wanted to offer an apology for asking, but I held back: self-confidence! You
don’t need to be self-confident to act self-confident, and Lord knows my heart was
screaming for an apology, a disclaimer, anything to take pressure off of her.
She answered, slowly, “Yes.”
Nothing. She said nothing, just stared at the city.
What the hell was she thinking?! I pondered in a shrieking thrill.
She looked into my eyes and smiled, her dimples dancing. “And I would like to go on
a date with you.”
Needless to say, I went to sleep very, very happy, excited about the future.
Maybe, after all, God has not abandoned me. Maybe He took Sammy from me because Rebecca
was just around the corner, and I needed to be ready for her warm embrace.
I entered the coffee shop and sat down at the bar. Monk finished serving a few lattes and
came, sitting beside me. I asked, “Okay, so I need to know a good place to go on a first date.
I mean, something really nice. I don’t want to go to the movies. I want conversation, not
just staring at a movie screen. I’d like to go out to eat, but I don’t want her to feel pressured
into buying something cheap just so I don’t have to pay too much. Besides, all of those are
in the idiot’s guide to first dates. I want something a little more… I don’t know the word
that I’m looking for. Not something too over the top, but not something that is routine or
mundane.”
Monk thought for a few moments, then, “How about Mt. Aries?”
“Near Colerain?”
“Yeah… But I’d go with Eden Park. Just take River Road East. You’ll see the signs.”
“I’ve heard Eden Park is nice… What’s there to do there?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I don’t know. They have hiking trails. A couple great overlooks. A reflection pool. If
it’s conversation you want, then I think Eden Park is your best bet. It isn’t too secluded, so
she won’t feel awkward—you know, being alone with you and all. Who is the girl?”
“Do you know Elizabeth’s roommate?”
He coached the soccer team, which Elizabeth starred on. “The quiet girl?”
I laughed. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Okay, then definitely go to Eden Park. A quiet girl like her will be more into
conversation than a physical relationship. I mean, she’s not going to want to kiss you on the
first date. Sorry, Bud.”
“No, that’s good. I don’t want a physical relationship, either.”
“Really? Then you’re quite the exception among men.”
Rebecca and I decided to go to Eden Park that Wednesday afternoon. It turned out to be a
perfect day: the trees were elaborate in their display of colored leaves, the sun broke upon
the earth in a warm massage, a cool breeze came across the river and sent ripples through
the treetops. I showered, washing three or four times, brushing my teeth twice. I applied
extra deodorant, shaved, and dressed in clothes that were nice but appropriate for a walk
in the park. I applied some STETSON cologne, drew a deep breath, and walked into the
hallway. Mark, getting a drink at the water fountain, told me to take a jacket: “If she gets
cold, you can give her your jacket. She’ll protest, but really, she’ll want your jacket.” So I
returned to my room and grabbed a jacket, thanking Mark as I went out to my JEEP. I started
the ignition and went around the campus roads until I reached the front of her dorm. I
rapped my fingers on the leather steering wheel, listening to quiet music coming through
the radio, heart bouncing. She exited the dorm, talked for a moment or two with some
friends, then calmly walked towards the JEEP. I got out and opened the door for her; she
thanked me and entered. I shut her door and entered my side. I put the JEEP into DRIVE and
pulled off campus. She set her purse at her feet and ran a hand through her golden blond
hair.
I said, “A beautiful day for the park.”
“I know!” she exclaimed. “I was thinking the same thing. It’s wonderful.”
“Would you like air conditioning or windows?”
“Whatever works,” she said.
I turned on the air conditioning; I didn’t want her hair messing up in the wind. It was
obvious she had spent some time combing it. I loved the way her eyes reflected in those
golden locks of hair. Spectacular.
And so our first date began—a date that I will always remember.
I entered the room, threw my keys on the dresser, and plopped down on my bed. Caleb sat
at his computer by the window, typing a paper for one of his psychology classes. He turned
and looked at me, seeing my eyes wide with wonder and astonishment, drooling over the
precious moments I had just experienced. He saw a big grin spread over my face. “It went
well, then?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Unbelievably well,” I said, leaning back against the bolster. A sigh escaped. “She’s an
angel. I mean… I can’t even begin to describe to you how amazing she is. We didn’t even
really do much. We just talked, really.” I recapped the date: “We went to Eden Park and
walked around the amphitheater, walked around the reflection pool, picked some flowers
—I’m going to put the one she gave me into my journal—and we sat along a row of broken
stones and watched rock climbers climb a broken stone wall. We talked forever, Man, and it
was amazing. We talked about all kinds of things. My family, her family. Our hopes and
dreams. What we want to do with our lives. This was the first date she’s ever been on, and
she had a really good time. I’m just sad it had to end. Time went by so fast.”
He didn’t watch me, simply typed his paper. “So are you guys together yet?”
“Umm… No. Well, here’s the deal: I asked her today, at the park, if she wanted to be
my girlfriend. She asked me if I wanted to be her boyfriend. So I said yes, of course. So I
asked her if she wanted to be my girlfriend, again. And she paused, then said, ‘I don’t
know. I’m not sure.’ And I went back behind the dorms for a smoke afterwards, and I
texted her, and I asked her if she’d like to go out again. She said ‘Maybe’… What do you
think that means? I know she had fun.”
Caleb shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”
“Michelle would probably know.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Try Michelle.”
I called Michelle that night. She asked how the date went, and I told her pretty much the
same thing I told Caleb. I then explained to her how Rebecca didn’t know if she wanted to
be my girlfriend, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go on another date with me. “It’s
confusing,” I said, “because the whole time she was flirting with me, you know? And
Elizabeth says she is pretty sure that she likes me. So I don’t know. I’m just really confused
—and worried, to be honest. I really like this girl.”
Michelle told me, “You don’t need to worry. Look: what did I tell you? She’s a quiet,
shy, introspective girl, remember? And she’s never been in a relationship before. I’m sure
she’s scared. First relationships always are, especially when they take place at college, and
especially from a girl’s perspective. Usually it’s not too big a deal, but Rebecca’s shyness
plays a big role. I’m sure she likes you, and I’m sure she wants to be with you… But right
now, I imagine, she’s going through a lot of inner turmoil. Trying to figure things out.”
“So what should I do?” I asked.
“Simple: let her sleep on it. Don’t ask again tomorrow. Ask Friday. It’ll give her more
time to think about it, and a little breathing room is what she needs right now. Keep
hanging out with her. Eat lunch with her. Dinner. Spend time with her. Do things together,
in groups. Let her get to know you some more. Have you guys talked about your pasts
yet?”
“Pasts? No, not really.”
“Then you should probably do that. It matters a whole lot to girls.”
I groaned.
“Relax!” Michelle exclaimed. “I doubt you’ll frighten her away. It’s all about trust.
Trust is huge with girls. If she can trust you to tell her the truth about your past—even if it’s
ANTHONY BARNHART
not what she wants to hear—then that will mean a lot. Don’t color things up or lie about it.
Lying is bad, bad news. So talk about your pasts first. That’s my advice.”
A few days passed. I took Michelle’s advice to heart and did not press Rebecca for another
date. It was when we were sitting outside the campus coffee shop, reclining at a round
patio table, that Rebecca took the initiative and asked me about my past. She didn’t ask it
bluntly, for such would be rude, but it was clear what she desired to know. So I told her,
stomaching up the nerve and being as honest as possible. I told her how I used to be
addicted to pornography before I was a Christian, and how it had been an escape route for
me, carrying me away from the loneliness and rejection I had faced as a kid. “During junior
high and the first year of high school,” I told her, “I was the kid everyone picked on. They
would always find a reason to make fun of me. Maybe I was too fat, or I had too bad acne,
or maybe I just had really bad body odor. The body odor wasn’t true, of course: I took care
of myself more than most. I showered three times a day and would wash my face between
periods. I wore my dad’s cologne. Yet I was the butt of their jokes, and they always found a
way to mock me and get a kick out of my misfortune.” She seemed saddened at such news.
I went on, “When I became a Christian, I devoured the New Testament. It became clear to
me that God desired me to be sexually pure. So I threw away all my magazines, deleted the
files on my computer, and I got rid of anything that could possibly throw up the
temptation. I didn’t stop overnight, of course. Some kids at my church, who were
Christians and much more mature than me, thought I was going overboard by tossing out
CDs and videos and books that might arouse my hormones. But they didn’t know how
deeply addicted I was. I literally went through withdrawal, and for nearly six months, I
was unable to overcome it. I realized that the loneliness did not depart. I thought that when
I became a Christian, God would make my life a billion times better. That didn’t really
happen. Without the escapism of pornography, I became even more depressed. That’s when
I turned to writing. I wrote short stories at first, then books. They were quite long. Some
wondered how I had the patience. They didn’t understand, didn’t know that writing had
become my new escape route. I always wrote stories where bad things happened to people
but they overcame it and had an even better life in the end. It was a testament to what I
desired. And my writing improved with time, and I began writing more detailed and
descriptive works. Eventually I got some of them published. Small-scale, of course. After
all, writing isn’t a job to me, but a release. When life sucked, I would write. My characters
were most often those people who were the ‘scapegoat’ kids, mocked and made fun of all
the time. And as bad as their lives got, they never gave up, and eventually they made a
name for themselves. Their lives got better. People admired them. A complete reversal.
That’s what I wanted my life to be… And, for the most part, it’s still what I want my life to
be. I appreciate those dark moments of my life that dragged me through the pits of despair,
because it’s helped shape the good qualities of who I am—yet at the same time, I still have
a… What’s the word I’m looking for? ‘Hangover’ would fit. Yes, I still have a ‘hangover’
from those years of loneliness and rejection. It still carries into who I am, and along with it
comes a good deal of emotional baggage that I’m still trying to sort through.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
We didn’t discuss her past that day. Two days later, we sat down on the hill
overlooking the “Nasty ‘Nati” spread before us, and she opened up: “I have a hard time
trusting people because whenever I’ve given someone trust, they’ve squandered it and spit
on it. Three years ago, I discovered that my father was having an affair on my mother. That
tore our family apart. Everything I’d always known—or, I guess, believed—about my father
crumbled in that moment. Mom was devastated. I remember hearing her and Dad yelling
in the kitchen. He blamed her for it, said she couldn’t please him, it wasn’t his fault, he was
just trying to make up for her faults. I still can’t believe he said it. She ran out of the kitchen,
hunched over and weeping. She nearly knocked me to the side as she rushed out the front
door, jumped in the car, and drove off. Dad came out, flaring red in anger, and when he
saw me, he broke down. He fell onto his knees and wept, begging for forgiveness,
apologizing over and over. I guess seeing his own kids—seeing the look of disgust and
brokenness on my face—made him rethink things. I just stared at him then walked up the
steps, leaving him alone. I didn’t say anything. All I wanted to do right then was kill him.
Mom came home later, and she came up to my room. She asked where dad was. I told her I
didn’t know. I guess he left sometime that afternoon. He never came back.”
I sat in silence, saying nothing.
She wiped a tear from her eye. “And after that, we were alone. Me, my mom, my
sister. I got a part-time job, and my mom took me to work every day. All the money I made
went to supporting our family, getting me and my sister through school. And then when I
graduated, college was out of the question. But then I received a scholarship from Bible
Bowl, and if I pursued an education degree here, I’d be able to come for free. So… here I
am.” She crossed her arms, sighed. “Ever since Dad cheated on Mom and just abandoned
us—never even trying to contact us—I’ve always been afraid to trust. Especially with boys.
Because I see all boys as jerks.” She looked away from me, flushed red with
embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not true.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Our life experiences shape our perspectives. I understand.”
“I know you’re not a jerk,” she said. “I know you’re different.”
“Good,” I said, “because I am most definitely not like that.”
She smiled. “I know.”
Silence passed between us. We admired the setting sun behind us casting its last dying
rays across the city, reflecting in the skyscraper windows.
Rebecca looked at me. “So would you like to go on another date?”
Our next date took place the following day, a Tuesday. We went to APPLEBEE’S along the Price
Hill strip, and my orange chicken bowl turned into orange chicken soup. I didn’t care,
though. Rebecca and I talked about how we would like to die. “I want to die in a car
accident,” I said, jokingly, though she took it seriously: her eyes lit up in astonishment. I
continued, “That way, it’s quick and painless.” I then told her I was kidding.
She said, “I want to die in the arms of my husband, in a quiet cabin in a quiet meadow
far, far away… where the wild bees swarm.”
I gave her a queer eye. “Isn’t that a Keith Urban song?”
She blushed. “Yeah. But I really like it!”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“It’s alright,” I said. “It’s country… I try to stay away from Satanic things.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a loser.”
I found Kyle and Elizabeth sitting on the hill the next evening. Rebecca and I had hung out
for much of the day, but she had to return to her dorm to do some homework for her
Classical Greek and Roman History exam (a class which I had loved when I took it my
freshman year). I sat down next to them. We chit-chatted for a few moments. Kyle asked,
“How’s the smoking going? From what I hear, Rebecca hates people who smoke.”
A tremble of shock ran through me. “Oh… Well, I’ll stop. For her? I’ll stop.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms. “You haven’t told her, have you?”
“I didn’t think it was that important!” I exclaimed. “A lot of people smoke.”
“This past weekend,” Elizabeth said, “Rebecca went to a festival with her parents. An
annual parade and festival in her hometown. People were smoking everywhere. She called
me and started ranting and raving about smokers. It was kind of scary, to be honest. She
was so mad. Her aunt smokes, too, and she despises just going to her house. I think you
should tell her you smoke—or kick the habit immediately. And then if she asks you about
it, just tell her that you stopped when you found out that she didn’t like it.”
I nodded, affirming. “That I can do,” I said.
From that point forward I didn’t smoke. I threw away all my DJARUM: I was not going
to let anything—not even my favorite pastime—get between me and the angel whom I’d
come to adore.
The four of us—Kyle, Elizabeth, Rebecca and I—ate together Wednesday afternoon. As we
were getting up to leave—Kyle had to go to soccer practice and Elizabeth had a class to
attend—Rebecca gently touched my arm. “Can we talk?” she asked. I said, “Sure.” We
walked around campus for about five minutes, talking about nothing in particular. She
seemed to be dodging something, and my heart began to corrode: Why does everything have
to always fall apart?! As we were walking past the View, from whence we could see the
entire city spread out like a carpet before us, Rebecca stopped. “I’ve been wanting to talk to
you… about ‘us.’”
I turned and faced her. “Okay…” Here it comes…
She seemed flustered.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Really. Just tell me what you have to say.” My heart ached.
“It’s just that… you and me… it feels right.” How was that bad? She continued, “But
I’m so scared of being hurt. My dad cheated on my mom, you know, and so it’s hard for me
to put trust in guys and not see them all as stupid, senseless jerks.”
I nodded, biting my tongue, yearning to blatantly defend my cause. “I understand.”
She stood silent for a moment, looking down at her shoes, cheeks flushing red.
I gently reached out, put a finger upon her chin, raised her head, looked into those
doleful eyes. “You know, Rebecca, that I have no desire whatsoever to hurt you. I want to
treat you right. And if we end up together, I will treat you right. I won’t cheat on you or
betray your trust. I’ll treat you like the princess you are. I’ll treat you as you deserve to be
treated. I mean, I know romance isn’t always a fairy-tale, but I am the kind of guy who
ANTHONY BARNHART
works through rough patches and conflict. I don’t look for easy escape routes… like your
dad did.”
A tear fell from her eye.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, realizing what I had said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-’’
“No,” she interrupted. “It’s not that. It’s just… You’re amazing, and I want to be with
you, and my life has been great ever since you entered it. And I want to be your girlfriend,
and I want you to be my boyfriend. And… well… it means a lot, what you’ve said to me
just now. About treating me right. Calling me a princess. And I know you’re not just telling
me this as a snare to pull me in. I know you’re being honest. Sincere. I’m just… I don’t
know.” She didn’t speak for a moment. “I want us to be together, but I’m so afraid, Anthony.
I can’t help it. And I’m so sorry.”
I caressed her cheek. “No, don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She then stepped forward and embraced me, squeezing me tightly.
She held that pose for a few moments, then stepped back.
I said, “You’re afraid of me cheating on you, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Impossible! “There are lots of girls on this campus, Rebecca, but you’re the only one I
like. And that’s by a long shot. I have no desire for any other. And there are just as many
jerks on this campus as girls, but I am not one of them.”
A few moments passed.
I confessed, “To be honest, Rebecca… I’m afraid of being hurt by you, too. But I dare
to believe that we can have something beautiful. I know risk is involved. And I know that
fear can stand in the way—not just your fear, which is legitimate, but mine as well.
Relationships are a shaky business. It takes time to get a relationship rolling right. I’m
scared of you cheating on me, which you know is preposterous. I’m afraid of being hurt.
But I’m willing to risk that, because while there’s a risk of hurt, there’s also a chance that
something unimaginably beautiful will take place. And if we let our fears run our lives,
then we’ll miss out on that. And you know I’m not just saying this to snare you.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said, hugging her. Leaning back, I peered into those wellspring eyes.
“Look. We don’t need to rush this. We’ll take it slow, if we take it at all. Right now, what
you should do, is go get some rest. You look really tired. Keep thinking about things. And
I’ll call you at dinner. Sound good?”
She nodded. “Sounds good.”
As I dropped her off at her door, she turned and whispered, “Thank you.”
We went on another date that Friday—a trip down to the banks of the Ohio River, along
Riverfront—and that evening, once we had gone to our separate homes for the weekend,
Rebecca called me. “This is really random,” she said, “but do you smoke?”
I told her, “I used to. I found out that you don’t like it—‘hate it’, in the words of
Elizabeth—and so I stopped. I mean, it was never anything huge. I wasn’t addicted or
anything. Just a few cigarettes here and there. But I stopped.”
“Why would you ever even start?!” she exclaimed.
ANTHONY BARNHART
“It was an avenue for dealing with my clinical depression,” I told her. “I have bipolar
disorder and general depression. Oh, and general anxiety disorder. And mild
schizophrenia—nothing serious, though. And cigarette tobacco has chemicals in it that
serve as antidepressants; that’s why eighty percent of smokers are clinically depressed. It’s
not that smoking makes them depressed; it’s that smoking helps relieve the depression.”
“Oh,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know that.”
“I know it bothers you. That’s why I stopped. I haven’t touched tobacco since I found
out.”
“Aww, that makes me feel so special!” she exclaimed. “Thanks for being honest with
me.”
Michelle’s words rang in my mind: trust. “It’s really hard, though,” I told her. “If
you’ve never been in the vice, you can’t understand. I’ll need your help, especially when
my clinical depression clicks in.”
“I’m here for you all the way! I’ll help you, and you can help me deal with the issues I
have with my dad because of his cheating on my mom.”
It sounded like a good deal. We talked for a little while more, then I told her, “I just
want you to know that I’m really glad I met you.”
“Me too! I can’t wait to get to know you even better.”
I wrote in my journal that night:
She’s such a good girl! How could I be so blessed?
On Sunday morning, I taught the high school class at church a lesson entitled “The Dream
of God.” The class loved it, and I was excited at the response. I called Rebecca to tell her
about it, but she didn’t answer the phone. I tried again, but no reply. I fixed a quick lunch
as my stomach churned. I couldn’t finish it: my nerves were ringing like an eternal
telephone. Finally she called me, crying.
“What’s wrong?!” I demanded, leaping up from my chair.
She didn’t answer at first, then: “I’m sorry to be like this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Crying on the phone…” A sniffle.
“No, no, that’s okay,” I urged. “I’m here for you, you know that.”
“Today is the anniversary of the day when we found out… about my dad…”
“Oh,” I said. “And it’s really hard?”
“Yes,” she said, then she began crying again.
She wept on the phone for nearly ten minutes, then, “When will you be back at
school?”
“Whenever I need to be,” I told her.
“Can you get here as soon as possible?”
“I’m on my way.”
We spent the evening just sitting and talking, playing board games to keep her mind
off what had taken place years ago—an event that would forever shatter her heart, mind,
and soul. She seemed much happier at the end of the night: her face glowed, her eyes
ANTHONY BARNHART
danced. She took me by the hand and invited me to dance. So we danced outside the
worship and ministry building, bathing in the light of a street lamp. A romantic night. I
made all her worries go away—and she made me forget about everything. In her presence,
it was just her and me… And nothing else mattered.
“AWKWARD QUESTIONS”
On Monday, Rebecca made up a list of questions she wanted to ask me for a game I
invented, which I entitled “AWKWARD QUESTIONS”. Each of us would write down random
questions, and the other person had to answer as honestly as possible. Today was her day; I
expected her to come up with three or four questions, but she came up with an entire sheet!
She handed me the sheet and had me read the questions aloud, then answer them. We did
this on our way to C.V.S. PHARMACY, because I had to refill a prescription for my clinical
depression.
Are you stopping smoking because it’s what you want to do or

because it’s what I want you to do?
I replied, “I’ve been wanting to quit smoking for a long time. I don’t want my kids to
have to watch their father die of lung cancer. I just lacked the motivation—and now I have
the motivation!” Laughing, I exclaimed, “You!”
“Okay,” she said. “But I don’t want you to change just because I want you to.”
“Isn’t sacrifice necessary in a relationship? Besides, this is something that has to be
done. Look at it like this: you’re a catalyst for a change that I’ve been wanting to make for a
long time, but have always been unable to make.” Next question:
Why have you never dated your best friend Ashlie?
To be honest, I laughed after I read that aloud.

“What’s so funny?” Rebecca asked, grinning. “I’m serious!”
“That’d be like dating my sister!” I said, chuckling. “She’s like a sister to me. I had a
crush on her once, when I first met her. But we became too good of friends, so that faded
away. Now she’s dating one of my friends.”
“Do you not think that’s a good question?”
“It’s a great question,” I said. “Now, what’s the next one?”
I was looking at your Myspace today, (see, I know a little about the
internet) and it says you’re in a relationship, why?
“That was from when I was dating Sammy,” I told her. She knew all about Sammy—
especially how she had cheated on me. The fact that I had walked in on Sammy cheating on
me put me, in a sense, in the same boat as Rebecca: we were both very afraid of the other
ANTHONY BARNHART
person cheating on us. I explained, “I’m not really big into Myspace. See, Sammy and I
used Myspace to communicate. She didn’t have a phone, and she wasn’t allowed to talk on
her home phone that much because of the bills. So we would chat through emails. When I
broke up with Sammy, we stopped talking, obviously. And I haven’t been on Myspace
since.”
Do these questions make you mad?
I laughed. “What?”
“I’m just making sure!” she exclaimed, turning down a branching road.
“Let me guess: you were clueless as to questions and so wrote this one down?”
She blushed.
Do you have any questions for me, even if you think they will
make me mad?
“No, actually,” I said. “I mean, when I have a question, I ask. I’m not shy.”
“Quite unlike me.”
“I like how you’re shy. It’s cute.”
She blushed again.
“See!” I exclaimed. “That’s adorable!”
Her face burned even redder.
“You’re killing me, Rebecca!”
“Read the next question before my face explodes.”
Would you cut your hair if I asked you to? I’m not saying you
should, exactly, just wondering?
I eyed her. “You don’t like my hair?”

“I didn’t say that.”
“I really like my hair. I get compliments all the time. It’s my best feature.”
“Have you ever tried it short?”
“Yes, and it looked horrible. You want me to cut it?”
“I didn’t say that…”
“Because I will if you want me to.”
“Just read the next question,” she said, playfully slapping me on the arm.
“All right, all right,” I said, bringing the paper before my eyes, reading aloud:
Do you think tattoos are OK?
“‘Do I think tattoos are okay?’” I repeated, confused. Eyeing her: “Huh?”
“I know it’s random. Elizabeth and I were talking about it today.”
“I think they’re fine,” I said. “Old Testament laws forbid the cutting of the flesh and
the marking of the body, sure, but that applied to the Old Testament culture when the
ANTHONY BARNHART
prophets of Ba’al would cut themselves up and mark themselves in order to appease their
gods. So the Israelites weren’t to do that because they didn’t worship those gods, they
worshipped the Israelite tribal deity, Yahweh.” A pause. “How’s that?”
She shrugged. “It’s… more than I’d care to know.” A laugh.
“Next question…”
“The next one is really long. You don’t have to read it out loud.”
“Okay…” I read silently her scribbled words (I loved her handwriting!):
Some of these questions aren’t very awkward, I know, but I

wanted to know the answers, so I asked. Ask me if I want to go on
another date with you. If yes, then ask me if I want to be your
girlfriend. I don’t want to bring it up, so this way it’s like you’re
asking again! I know I’m weird and a dork, but I’m OK with it!
She added in a bubble in the left-hand margin:
But only ask if you still want to! I understand if you changed your
mind, I was slow!
We rode in silence for a few moments. Rebecca became ancy. I imagine she thought
that I had changed my mind, but the truth was, I simply found myself stricken paralyzed. I
stared at her written words. She began to say something, but I interrupted: “Want to go on
another date?”
She grinned, blushing. “Yeah.”
“Would you… like to be my girlfriend?”
Her features blossomed like fireworks. “Yeah!”
We drove in silence. I said, “Well. This is the beginning.”
“The beginning of something beautiful!”
Quite an understatement.
That evening I posted on my blog:
Rebecca and I ate lunch together, went to STEVE & BERRY'S for some new fall
clothes, then hung out in the coffee shop till about 9:30. She said, "I've been
doing a lot of thinking, and I want to be your girlfriend." Terrific news! She
is such a wonderful girl, and I am so happy that we're together. I rushed
into things with Sammy, and I felt God saying, "This isn't where I want you
to be." I feel like God is smiling upon my relationship with Rebecca. It's
amazing to think how a simple six weeks have changed everything. Six
weeks ago this Wednesday, Caleb worked a supervisor shift in the coffee
shop, and I visited him. A cute girl walked in, and Caleb read her name on
the computer when he rang her through. He came back and sat with me,
telling me, "Her name is Rebecca." And then, through a random twist-and-
turn of events, I got to know her and realized her outer beauty does not
ANTHONY BARNHART
compare to her inner beauty. She's the Proverbs 31 gal. So right now I am a
very happy man, thanking God minute-by-minute for this marvelous girl
whom I do not deserve. My hope and prayer is that I treat her right as long
as we are together.
When I went to bed that night, I opened my Bible to Psalm 40. The words of King David
stuck out to me more than ever:
I waited patiently for the LORD, and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry.
He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set
my feet upon a rock, and established my goings. And he hath put a new
song in my mouth, even praise unto our God; many shall see it, and fear,
and shall trust in the LORD. (Psalm 40.1-3)
The psalm struck me differently than it had in the past. I remember reading this psalm
in my darkest hours of romantic hopelessness, and it served as a prophetic utterance of
what was to come: a day when God’s deliverance from my troubles would be hurled upon
me like a massive tidal wave. He would reach down, take hold of me, and pull me from my
despair. He would set my feet upon a rock, open up to me a new life, and He would change
my heart of sadness into a heart of joy. This psalm had been prophetic; in that moment, it
became historical—no, it became a present reality. I went to bed the happiest man alive—not
knowing that in only a few months, I would be weeping and cursing, lifting angry eyes to
Heaven, as I let my blood stain the snow red.
ANTHONY BARNHART
ANTHONY BARNHART
CHAPTER FOUR
All Dreams Shatter
“It’s easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject you or
die.” (Chuck Palahniuk)
A CRIMSON WARNING
A warm burst of air had swept through southwest Ohio, and on the weekend I found
myself in my hometown, standing outside a renovated bus garage. Throbbing hardcore
music came from within; one of my friends’ bands, SeaTurnsRed, was playing inside,
enthroned by an adoring mob of Sr. High emo chicks. I could hear the gentle rumble of my
friends’ drums. Two brick pillars held up the awning outside the garage and faced the
street; I leaned against one of these, watching the cars drive by in the ephemeral darkness. I
could hear boys and girls laughing behind me and running around, sitting at the iron
tables and drinking soda and eating pizza. I heard some junior high kids organizing a
make-out circle. I shook my head and laughed.
“Hey bud.”
I didn’t even turn my head. I already knew who it was. Ron had come to the Garage as
a sponsor for the youth, and a friendship between the two of us had quickly emerged.
“Hey man,” I said. “I love this warmth, don’t you? It makes me so happy.”
“I know,” he said, standing beside me. “I’m making my rounds. Want to tag along?”
“Heck yes,” I said, and the two of us began our trek around the grounds, searching for
kids messing around, smoking weed or engaging in “promiscuous acts.”
As we walked under the flickering starlight, Ron asked, “So, your sister tells me you
have a girlfriend now?”
I grinned. “Yeah. She’s amazing.”
“Oh… So who is this girl? I feel left out of the loop, Man.”
I was smiling ear-to-ear; my cheek muscles stretched. “She’s a wonderful girl. I asked
her to ‘be my girl’ last week.”
“Oh. And she said yes?”
I laughed, looked at his profile. “Are you surprised?”
“I’ve never known you as the guy who had a girlfriend. I mean… You’ve never had
one… Except for Sammy, I mean. Girlfriends are a recent thing for you.”
“Well, things change,” I said. “I mean, really, think about how much has changed in
just your life and mine. I’ve got the most beautiful girlfriend in the world, and you’re going
to have a baby in, what, a month?”
He grinned. “It’s a girl, by the way.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
I was ecstatic. “Really? Dude! That’s awesome!”

“I know,” he said, beaming like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.
“Do you know what you’re going to name her?”
“Jasmine,” he answered. “My wife, she’s Arabic, and she wants an Arabic name.”
“It’s a beautiful name, Dude. A beautiful name.”
We reached the back of the Garage. Ron stopped beside his blue truck and pulled out
a cigarette. “You want one?”
“No thanks. The girl has me on a leash,” I joked. “No tobacco. She hates it.”
“Yeah,” he said, gently lighting the cigarette. “My wife isn’t too fond of them, either.”
I crawled into the bed of the truck and sat on one of the wheel hubs. I looked up at the
stars. I counted out a few constellations in my head and said, “We can’t see the stars on
campus. One can easily forget how beautiful they are.”
“It’s the simplicities of life,” Ron said, “that are the most beautiful.”
“Amen,” I said. “You always become a philosopher when you smoke, you know it?”
“The smoke, it opens your eyes.”
“Opens your eyes, closes your lungs, good trade-off.”
Ron laughed. “I’m serious, though. The smoke… It settles the nerves.”
“And that, my friend, is called addiction.”
“Oh, come on. It hasn’t been too long since you were in the club.”
“When one leaves the club, he turns against the club.”
They remained in silence for a little while. Ron continued taking drags and blowing
the smoke out, watching it spiral and vanish into the dark nighttime sky. He suddenly
burst, “Be careful, Man. Okay?”
I tossed him a glance, confused. “What?”
“Be careful with her.”
“Oh. Dude. Of course. I’m going to treat her right.”
“Don’t fuck her. Unless you get married.”
I couldn’t help but love the man’s bluntness. “I’m going to treat her right,” I said. “And
that means not treating her as a mere sex-toy. Besides, I’m dedicated to honoring my future
wife, and I don’t think screwing around is too honorable, you know? And-’’
Ron cut me off with a severing glare. “It’s not that easy, Man.”
It took me a moment to respond. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
“Logic… Logic, it doesn’t work. It fails you. Because your logic, it becomes twisted.
Doing whatever you want, fulfilling your lustful passions, giving your hormones control…
Your head, it goes crazy… It begins to believe crazy things… I know it sounds crazy, but I
know… You’ll start to think that you’re loving her like you should when you sleep with
her. You’ll be convinced she’s your future wife, and you will honor that love by sex… It will
make sense, even though it doesn’t now.” He shook his head. “If you rely on logic,
Anthony, you’re going to die. You’re going to have sex with her. You have to run off
something that transcends mere logic.”
I was staring at his friend. “Eva always told me-’’
“She doesn’t know,” Ron said coldly. “Please. Don’t tell her.”
A knot hardened in my throat. “I won’t.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Ron’s lips touched the cigarette less and less as he spoke. “I was in Bible College, too.
A different one, down in Kentucky. I met a girl there. She was a worship major, I was a
youth ministry major.” He spoke from memory, not allowing his words to slur as he spoke.
“I met her my freshman year. We hit it off pretty good, started dating come that January.
We stayed together all sophomore and junior years. It was in the beginning of senior year
when I was thinking about proposing. I mean, I loved this girl. I really did. I loved her like I
love Eva. This wasn’t infatuation, it was selfless, serving, sacrificial love. The real kind of
love, you know?” I kept nodding along, sitting in the back of his truck. “We were working
at a church together, in a town called Crank’s Creek. We were there… One night, we were
all alone, and we were closing up the church. We went outside, and my car wouldn’t start.
We drove separate because I had to do church legwork all day and she had to baby-sit
some kids. Extra cash on the side, you know? So I took her up on the offer and got inside
the car… And I wasn’t expecting it, she wasn’t expecting it, and the worst temptation I’ve
ever felt came over me. It was pure tunnel vision. It was like demon possession, I swear:
dizzy, seeing spots, one-track mind. Common sense, Anthony, that dreadful little thing
called ‘common sense’ left me completely. Gone. All I knew was her and my raging
hormones. She had tunnel vision, too, and in ten minutes we were in the backseat of her
car, clothes strewn over the floorboards, naked together.”
I was quiet for several moments. I asked, voice crackling, “So… What happened?
Afterwards, I mean?”
“I was devastated. She was devastated. You can pout around forgiveness all you want,
but it doesn’t take away the shame. Our relationship took a dive and… It became purely
physical… We had sex a few more times, here-and-there. The campus was in the middle of
nowhere, amidst the Appalachian mountains, and we’d often go camping… And do it
there… Sometimes for entire weekends… The relationship, that beautiful relationship we
had, fell. It smashed on the rocks. It went from intimate to sexual, from loving to sensual.
My intimacy with God was stretched thin. I was forgiven, and God’s grace has cleansed
me… For I truly was repentant, I just wasn’t in control… But I couldn’t hear His voice
anymore, couldn’t feel His touch… I couldn’t hear Him singing songs of joy over me, you
know? That hurts, Anthony. Oh God, it hurts. We both knew what we had to do, but I
didn’t want to lose her. I thought the relationship was salvageable. I was wrong. Our
actions that night had ruined it. So she broke up with me. She didn’t blame me. I mean, she
was as much at fault as I was. We were in the same boat. She knew what she had to do, and
I knew what I had to do. Except she was the only one with willpower.”
Some kids walked past, laughing and tossing crude jokes.
After they had passed, Ron said, “I love Eva to death, Anthony. I would die for her in
a heartbeat. And Jasmine. I love her, and I haven’t even seen her yet! I am thankful that I
am with her. I know without a doubt that she is God’s gift to me, and I am God’s gift to
her… I just…” He shook his head again and looked me in the eyes; the entire time he had
been staring off into space as he spoke. “I will always regret it. I ruined something
beautiful. I took one of God’s greatest gifts to me, and I squandered it, spit in the gift’s face
and spit in God’s face as well. Please. Please don’t make the same mistake, okay? Don’t rely
on logic. Just pray. Pray that when that times comes, you’ll be able to resist. Because it will
ANTHONY BARNHART
come. There are so few people who are actually virgins when they marry. And it’s such a
blessing to be… I imagine.” A command: “Don’t make the same mistake I did, you know?”
I nodded. “All right.”
Ron snuffed out the cigarette. “I’m feeling a little cold. I’m going inside.”
I crawled out of the truck bed. “I’m going to go home. I need to sleep. I’m teaching in
the morning.”
“Love you, Man,” Ron said as he entered the GARAGE through the back.
I didn’t leave immediately. I leaned against the truck door and stared at the stars,
treasuring in my heart all the words Ron had spoken.
“WHERE THE WILD BEES SWARM”
For me to tell you of my time dating Rebecca would take hundreds of pages. While our
“fling” only lasted two weeks, I could write for an eternity about the peace and joy I
experienced, about the wonderment I found in her person, about how I fell for her more
and more with each passing day. I awoke with joy and went to sleep happy. I had found the
One—the One whom God had spoken to me about that summer evening at Mt. Echo—and
this deliverance brought a whole new dimension to my life. Suddenly my life meant so
much. My life felt complete. I had been stranded in a wasteland of broken rocks, lava flows,
and tar pits, and now I danced in a meadow of wildflowers, through which coursed a
gurgling creek with crystal-clear waters, a meadow where the wild bees swarmed. I have
decided, for this course of my story, to simply write down my journal entries as I have
them. They will tell the story as if I were there right now.
October 3, 2006, Tuesday: I slept like a baby all last night! It is so amazing,
so unthinkable, so… mesmerizing! Rebecca is my girlfriend! I have feelings
for a wonderful girl, and she has feelings for me! We laugh and talk and
play, and all the worries of existence fade into the background! I can breathe
around her, I can be myself, I can exist in an aura of non-superficiality. She
is the girl I’ve wanted, always prayed for; I know I do not deserve her, she is
a pure gift from God, and I will enjoy her and treat her right for as long as
we are together! We grabbed lunch in the cafeteria, then sat in the Gazebo
and asked one another more awkward questions (she’s really good at it!).
We went to APPLEBEE’S for dinner, then visited Brian at his parsonage in
lower Kentucky. He said, “She seems like a really nice gal; I don’t know
what she sees in you!” We went to Big Bone Lick State Park and swung on
the swings before taking a walk. We drove back and talked. I’m so
comfortable around her, it’s unbelievable. I said, “I really had fun tonight. I
think we’re at the beginning of something really beautiful.” She smiled and
said, “Me too!”
ANTHONY BARNHART
October 4, 2006, Wednesday: Brian came to campus and spent the night last
night. So much laughter! Work at the Hilltop went by well. Last night
Rebecca and I had our first “tiffle”; we both apologized for our roles in it,
and we’re moving on. Oddly, I want there to be some conflict, because it will
(hopefully) help the relationship. I ate lunch with her and Elizabeth; she
said, “Sorry for being a little weird last night. Sometimes I get in weird
moods. I’m sorry.” We had played a game of YAHTZEE! with Kyle and
Elizabeth, and she had been really quiet and unapproachable. “It’s okay,” I
told her. Brian and I talked about how I’m doing some things different with
Rebecca than what I did with Sammy. “I’m taking things really slow,” I told
him, “and I’m not going to tell her, ‘I love you,’ without really meaning it.
And I’m not going to try and make our every moment together romantic;
that just doesn’t work!” I explained, “What I feel for Rebecca is so much…
different… than what I felt for Sammy.” “Yeah,” Brian said. “I could tell that
the moment I saw you two together.” I hung out in the coffee shop tonight.
Trista hugged me and said, “I’m going to miss you, Little Man! Come see
me over Fall Break, okay?” I can’t wait to hold Rebecca in my arms again!
Fall Break started today. It lasts till Sunday. It’s sad that I will only get to see
her once over break. Oh well. Pat came over when I got home, and we made
a fire. He smoked a cigar, but I refrained, telling him why. “You’re a good
man, Mr. Anthony Barnhart,” he told me.
October 5, 2006, Thursday: I laid in bed this morning just staring at the
ceiling, contemplating just how very blessed I am. I look at all the “dirty
deeds” of my past, and I wonder how God could let me and Rebecca come
together: she deserves so much better than me, the wretched creature that I
am! Yet God forgives my sin; He doesn’t count it against me. Wow. Man, I
am a lucky fool! Rebecca told me today, “I love being with you. I want us to
make memories together.” She added, “I miss you on the weekends. During
the week I see you all the time, but you’re gone on the weekends, and it…
feels… different.” Michelle called and told me, “I can see you two being
together for a really long time.” “Geez!” I told her, “You’re already talking
about marriage!” She said, “That’s not what I meant.” Yet both Michelle and
I know that marriage isn’t an impossibility. As Amos said one night as we
smoked out in the woods, “When you’re in high school, you really don’t
think too much—at least not seriously—about marriage. But in college it is
the unspoken presumption. No one’s an idiot; you begin dating—at least
here at Bible College—with marriage on the brain, asking yourself, ‘Could
she—or he—be the one?’” But I am just getting to know Rebecca. I will not
be an idiot and proclaim, “I’m going to marry her!” Is it a possibility? Of
course—but definitely not anytime soon. Also, with Rebecca’s family history,
she will be very hesitant to commit. Brian said, “When Megan and I hit the
three-month mark, I realized I loved her and tried to break up with her. I
ANTHONY BARNHART
was scared of commitment. My dad cheated on my mom, and I was afraid

of being hurt.” So I’m quite conscious of some hurdles that may come before
us… I made a boo-boo and Rebecca got mad. We talked things over. I called
her and told her, “I smoked a cigar today, but I felt horrible. I know you do
not like it, and you’re worth more than dumb cigars. So I threw away my
tobacco, and I’m really going to try and stop, just for you.” She really liked
that. It’s gonna be a hell of a fight. I apologized for not being the “perfect
boyfriend,” and I reminded her that I want to treat her like the princess she
is. She said, “I know you’re not perfect; nobody is.” She added, “Thanks for
being so amazing!” I went to STARBUCKS to do some homework while sipping
a caramel macchiato, then I went to the park and threw my pipe into the
lake. She is worth the sacrifice.
October 6, 2006, Friday: I biked to Chris’ house, broke in, and played his
NINTENDO 64 to escape my boredom. Ashlie picked me up after she was done
with school. Trista came by the house, and we went to the boys’ soccer
game. Kyle played well. Elizabeth, Lizzie, and “the twins” showed up.
Trista and I grabbed dinner at WENDY’S, and she took me home. I made a fire
in the evening, relaxing under the stars and contemplating the grace God
has bestowed upon me: I drown under His forbearance and love! Ashlie and
Anna (who is home from Purdue for her Fall Break) came over, and we all
ate pizza, sprayed each other will silly-string, and bragged about our
“significant others.” I messed up with smoking again. Feeling convicted, I
called her and confessed. She started crying; “How can I trust you in the big
things if I can’t trust you in the small things?” I felt horrible! She sees that if
I can’t stop smoking, then how can I be any different from her dad, who
cheated on his wife and then left them abandoned? We talked things over
for a little bit. We talked on the phone in the car, and Ashlie was right there,
which made it a little awkward. “I know it looks like I don’t care,” I told her,
“But I do care. Please give me one more chance—I will show you how much
you mean to me by enduring the pain of quitting, and I’ll do it all for you.
Please? One more chance?” A quiet pause. “Okay. One more chance.” This
is, indeed, a new beginning; I will not make the same mistakes. God kept
telling me over the summer, “Stop smoking!” He knew where I would find
myself. Thank God—and thank Rebecca!—for second chances!
October 7, 2006, Saturday: It is odd: things feel different today for some
reason. I feel as if this is a new beginning. All my sins, my mistakes, my
regrets—although they reach to the moon (indeed, to the stars!)—are gone,
forgotten, non-existent. I am truly 100% innocent because of God’s grace.
Now I must clean the room, get some homework done, and write
tomorrow’s lesson, for Rebecca and I are hanging out at 2:00 today! [Pencil
changes to Pen] I picked Rebecca up at 2:00 and we drove to my place (well,
ANTHONY BARNHART
my hometown). We hung out on the bridge at North Park, made a fire in the
pit on the deck, and we just bathed in each others’ presence. It was a
wonderful time! I wanted to hold her the entire night, but I refrained. I told
her this, and she said, “Don’t be scared of me. I don’t want you to be scared
of me!” What a good girl. I confessed, “Sometimes I’m afraid you’ll up and
tell me you’ve lost your feelings for me.” “Why do you say that?” she asked.
I told her, “It happened to me three times last year with girls I almost
dated.” “Oh,” she said; “Well, don’t worry, okay? You don’t need to worry. I
like you.” I feel like this is where God wants me to be.
October 8, 2006, Sunday: A new revelation has come to me; how could I
have missed it?! The Old Covenant came under the flags of many leaders:
judges, prophets, priests, and kings. Under the New Covenant, all of these
come under one name, the perfect culmination: the Christ, the Messiah!
Now God is our perfect Judge, our perfect Prophet, our perfect Priest, our
perfect King. He is all that the former were meant to be, and more! Church
went well; the class was small, and we talked about examining ourselves to
see if we are “in the faith.” Good reviews. Mom made excellent pot roast, of
which I ate way too much! Dad went running, Mom went to a meeting, and
Ashlie and Amber went over to Luke’s place. I had a lot of time today to
think things over between me and God. I have been “falling away,” and
God has been pleading with me to return to Him. There are areas in my life
where I have not surrendered to Him; there are sins of which I have not
repented. “How long will you grieve Me?” God asks. “Do you not know I
weep when I see you, a precious child whom I love, walking away from
Me?” We had a chat; I basically apologized for my life as of late and
recommitted to Him. A wave of grace poured over me; may things be
different from here on out! I asked Rebecca if she wanted to go to Mt. Echo.
“How about tomorrow?” she asked; “I’m really tired.” “Okay,” I said. I
went to the coffee shop and worked on homework. Elizabeth told me,
“Rebecca is in the hospital.” It was a joke; I ended up terrifying them
outside the building as payback. Rebecca apologized for being “difficult”
earlier, when she refused to go to Mt. Echo. “It’s fine,” I said. She kept
apologizing. “Rebecca,” I insisted: “It’s really okay.”
October 9, 2006, Monday: I worked in the coffee house from 8 to 11 a.m.,

worked on some more homework, ate lunch in the dining hall with Kyle
and Elizabeth, and then Rebecca showed up after class. Rebecca and I sat
out in the campus gazebo after we ate, till we both had to go to class. I ran
my fingers through her soft brown hair as we talked. Class was boring, but
we got out early. I finished my homework I’ve been working on lately and
studied for a test tomorrow. Rebecca and I went to Mt. Echo, admiring the
view overlooking the city, then walking through the woods, hand-in-hand.
ANTHONY BARNHART
We stood on the bridge and cuddled, talking. Some little kids ran past and
their mother said, “Sorry to interrupt your guys’ moment!” We laughed. I
was scared of cuddling with her at first, but I pretty much conquered my
fear and went with it; she responded likewise. I am so glad we’re friends,
and that the relationship isn’t purely physical. As we talked, she kept
looking between my eyes and lips, an obvious sign that she wanted to kiss
me. Saturday she said she wanted to save our first kiss for a while, so—
although I really wanted to kiss her—I refrained. She went to bed when we
got back. I ate dinner—a late one!—with Michelle and Rob. I am going to
WAL-MART tomorrow; I really need a nicotine fix bad, and I want to get some
NICORETTE.
October 10, 2006, Tuesday: I took two tests today, and both were really easy.
Rebecca saved me a seat in chapel. We held hands. She said, “All through
high school, I was the third wheel, then the fifth wheel, then the seventh
wheel.” “Me too,” I said; “It gets old fast, doesn’t it?” “Oh yeah!” she
exclaimed. I asked her if she wanted to kiss me yesterday. “No,” she said. I
told my sister about it over the phone, and she said, “What a tease! Looking
between the eyes and lips is exactly what a girl does when she wants a kiss!
Maybe she’s too scared?” Rebecca and I ate lunch together, made a WAL-
MART trip for my nicotine gum, then we went to the View till she had to go
to class. I finished a take-home exam while she was in class, and when she
got out, we went to Newport, walked the PURPLE PEOPLE BRIDGE, and cuddled
on the Cincinnati pier. “It’s so… weird… that I feel so comfortable with
you… like this,” she said. “I know,” I said; “I’ve never felt this comfortable
with anyone, not even my last girlfriend.” We’ve agreed to hold off kissing
till the “right” time. This is a good idea, I think. We ate COLDSTONE ice cream
as we drove back to campus. Trista, Amos and I worked the closing shift in
the coffee shop… and I have to wake up early for the opening shift
tomorrow!
October 11, 2006, Wednesday: Work this morning went by fast. Elizabeth
and Rebecca came in to visit me. We watched a movie in class, then
Elizabeth, Rebecca and I ate lunch. Elizabeth left to make some phone calls,
so Rebecca and I went to the wooden swing and cuddled. Class this
afternoon went by fast. I hung out in the dorms for a while. I was taking a
nap when Rebecca texted me: “Want to meet by the swing?” So I showered
and met her on the hill. A heavy storm rolled through; I protected her from
the wind and rain. She began to shiver, so I held her tighter. “How long do
you think we’ll be together?” I asked [in hindsight, I realize now this was
the stupidest possible question I could have asked]. “What do you mean?”
she inquired. “How long do you want to be together?” I asked her.
“Forever,” she said, whispering into my ears. The joy that ran through me!
ANTHONY BARNHART
At FAMILY tonight I wrapped my arms around her and she leaned into me. A
wave of peace washed over me. My relationship with Sammy felt wrong,
and God told me many times, “This is not where I want you.” After my
breakup with Sammy, I went to Mt. Echo and smoked some clove cigarettes.
God—I believe—told me at that time, “I did not want you to be with
Sammy because I have someone else for you. You’ll meet her this year.”
Now, with Rebecca, I feel at peace; this feels right for both of us. It’s like God
is smiling over the two of us! Over and over and over God told me, “Hope
in Me. Trust in Me. Wait—and watch!” I stand breathless: I’ve arrived by the
grace of God.
October 12, 2006, Thursday: Rebecca and I have games we play with one
another. The first game is “Awkward Questions”: we come up with
awkward questions, and the other person must answer honestly. Another
game involves one person randomly asking, “What are you thinking?” and
the other person answering with the truth, no matter what. She asked me,
“What are you thinking?” I told her, “I’m thinking that you’re beautiful and
wondering why you don’t think you’re beautiful.” “I don’t know…” she
said quietly. “What would you change about yourself?” “My weight,” she
said. “Please don’t!” I exclaimed, patting her on her scrumptiously round
tummy. “You’re perfect how you are!” She smiled, asked, “What would you
change?” “My acne,” I said. She laughed. “It’s not that bad. I don’t even
notice it.” [Blue Pen changes to Red Pen] When I woke up this morning,
Rebecca got a hold of me: “I need to talk with you.” She told me her mother
thought I was a “smooth-talker” trying to get some action, and that my
relationship with her is just a rebound from Sammy. “It really bothers me,”
she told me. I told her I wasn’t like that; “My intentions with you are only
pure and godly.” She calmed down a bit. We went to Newport and talked
for two hours. She said, “I just don’t feel very beautiful.” I hugged her and
said, “You’re so very beautiful, okay? I’m serious.” She confessed to
worrying about “us”. She said, “I’m really scared about being hurt. Not
consciously but subconsciously.” I held her and comforted her. She went out
to eat with her family; I worked on prophecy homework in the coffee shop.
Rebecca returned, then Kyle and Elizabeth came. Rebecca and I watched the
city at the View until she was too tired she couldn’t stay awake.
October 13, 2006, Friday: Brian spent the night last night: so much laughter!
Rebecca and I talked late into the night. Being tired, I became a little corny,
expressing my heart, and she did likewise. I told her, “I’m really happy with
you, Rebecca… It’s the thought of losing you that terrifies me… Thanks so
much for becoming a part of my life… This is only the beginning, and I’m
excited about the future!” She replied, “That’s so sweet! I’m excited, too! You
make me happy! I like you and I feel like I always will! It doesn’t even seem
ANTHONY BARNHART
weird!” Trista worked my opening shift today, so I got to sleep in. I hung
out with Michelle and Brian, went to class with Kyle, then ate lunch with
Rebecca. We went to the soccer games, sharing a blanket in the chill. She
didn’t want to share a blanket with me, which was weird. And she seemed
kind of detached. I’m not going to worry about it. We ate OREOS at my place,
cuddled a bit in my room, and she and my mom talked for a little while.
Mom absolutely adores the girl! Rebecca still refuses to believe she’s
beautiful; it drives me crazy! I told her, “Ever since I held you in my arms,
I’ve felt content with my life!” “You’re so amazing!” she told me; “I hope
we’re together forever.” I said, “Me too! Honestly, I think we’ll be together
forever.” She said, “It’s so weird that we’ve only known each other for two
months, and I can see myself always being with you. It seems right. And I
am closer to you than I am to anyone else.” “It is weird,” I said, “this…
connection… that we have… it is undeniable.” I told Amber, “I am going to
marry Rebecca. Remember that.” She doesn’t believe me. Oh well. Believe it.
Rebecca believes it. God is so good to me: why?! Grace!
THE VENOMOUS RHYTHM OF FATE
I was convinced that God had taken me from Sammy (though in quite a graphic and
unnecessary way) to pave the road for my meeting Rebecca. The connection we shared (or,
I guess, the connection I thought we shared) was undeniable. I opened my bedroom
windows and crawled into bed, pulling the quilt over me. Resting my head on the pillow
and closing my eyes, I listened to the cicadas and crickets outside my window, the far-off
rumble of Interstate 75, and the occasional distant laughter of kids laughing in the street,
playing on the eve of the weekend. How long I lied there before falling asleep, I do not
know. I kept mulling over my conversation with Rebecca, the exchanging of affections, the
declaration of devotion. I had never met a girl so wonderful, and I felt awestruck that God
would allow me to call her mine. I remembered the day I first realized I liked her, and
seeing her transcendent beauty, I convinced myself that I could never be with someone so
spectacular. Caleb had knocked me upside the head and told me to grow a pair of balls and
get on with it. I had fought and struggled and doubted and, at times, cursed in the struggle
to be with her—and finally what I dreamed to be impossible took place before my eyes:
and in a way I could not even have imagined! Not only was I with her, but I loved her. I
would never tell anyone this, of course; after all, we’d only know each other for two
months, and we had been dating only for about two weeks. But what I felt for her, how I
longed to be in her presence, how her cute smile and succulent eyes devoured my soul:
“Could this be anything but love?” I had mistaken lust for love when it came to Sammy. But
with Rebecca, I didn’t want to get in her pants or be naked with her. No, I just wanted
conversation. Intimacy that went beyond the physical realm. This had been the relationship I
thirsted for, and God had given it to me. An act of pure grace. The scripture in James
ANTHONY BARNHART
echoed in my mind: “Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming
down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.” I fell
asleep that night with a wide smile of contentment on my face. I thanked God for Rebecca.
I thanked Him for answering my prayers. I thanked Him for coming through with His
promises.
The next morning I arrived at Rebecca’s house around noon. She lived near Xenia,
Ohio—the land of tornadoes, apparently cursed by a cryptic Indian shaman hundreds of
years ago—in a small ranch-style house tucked into a pocket of trees. I noticed an above-
ground swimming pool in the backyard as I pulled into the gravel driveway. I parked the
car and got out, stretched my legs from the forty-five minute drive, and I walked up the
creaking wooden steps, stood on the front porch. Potted plants yellowed and decayed hung
from the rafters, unmoving and stoic in the stale air. I knocked a few times, heard ferocious
dog barks. The door opened. Rebecca pushed away the dogs and squeezed outside the
door. We smiled at one another and hugged—the smell of perfume in her hair drove me
crazy. She knew I loved it when she curled her hair, so she had curled her hair for me—
what a treat! She introduced me to her brother, and then we got in the car and went to the
library, listening to The Appleseed Cast on my laptop (I drove my father’s van, and the stereo
didn’t work). She rented out some books on gene therapy for a school paper, and I teased
her about her choice of reading material. She playfully slapped me. We leapt back into the
van and headed to my hometown—“Let’s take a walk,” I said.
We pulled of Interstate 675 and drove straight to Cox Arboretum, a botanical gardens
near the DAYTON MALL. All of the parking spots were taken, and additional parking had
moved into the elementary school next door. We parked there, and then I told Rebecca,
“This is where I went to kindergarten. I went to school here, then we moved away, to
Georgia, and then we came back nearly ten, twelve years later.” We found out the reason
for the large crowds: a garlic festival. Not something one hears of every day. I made a bad
joke: “At least we know there are no vampires present!” She rolled her eyes. My cheeks
blushed. We walked along the pond, watching the large white and golden fish, the frogs
jumping along the muddy banks, turtles crawling onto logs to sunbathe. The path beside
the pond wove between thickets of exotic trees and flowers. Rebecca took out her camera
phone and took a picture of an elephant flower: the flower’s petals were the size of
elephant’s ears. The trail meandered to a gazebo overlooking a line of oppositely-facing
trees; we sat down and talked for quite some time. Rebecca told me she was getting hungry,
so we stood and returned to the car.
Amber was out at her boyfriend Luke’s house, and Dad was out with his friend Joe
running, biking, and swimming a triathlon. Mom greeted us, and she spoke with Rebecca
for about ten minutes as I fixed us grilled vegetables and baked chicken, using Cajun
seasoning, rosemary and garlic butter, and VIRGIN olive oil. We filled our plates and set
down on the deck, watching the sun dying behind a row of trees. She wanted to watch a
movie, so we went downstairs and chose one: The Sixth Sense. “Only one thing really scares
me,” I told her as I put the movie in: “Ghosts. And demons. So two, I guess. Vampires,
werewolves, psychos, aliens… None of that bothers me. The classical characters of horror
movies and books—like zombies, for example—don’t frighten me. But ghosts scare the hell
ANTHONY BARNHART
out of me. My family is a weird family when it comes to the supernatural. On my mom’s
side. Have I ever told you about that?” She shook her head, curling up on the couch. I
pulled the remote out of a chair and sat down beside her. She leaned into me, and I
wrapped my arm around her, my fingers draping over her arm. “My great-great
grandmother could levitate tables. My grandma refuses to talk about it. My mom sees
things that don’t exist. In one of our old houses in Georgia, she would always see a dark
figure in a top-hat standing at the end of her bed at night. When I was little, I was sleeping
in my dad’s mom’s house—my grandma—and when I woke up, I sat what looked like a
little boy with goat horns and red eyes standing beside my bed. It freaked me out, but I
forgot about it. But then last year, in my Greek and Roman History class, we were talking
about Caesarea Philippi, on the Mediterranean Coast. In a place called ‘The Rock,’
worshippers of the Greek god Pan would have sex with goats and such in order to placate
him. There was a picture of a statue of him in our textbook, and it looked exactly like what I
saw that night when I was a little kid… And though The Sixth Sense is, technically speaking,
a drama, the first time I saw it, I couldn’t sleep for a week. And it’s not even that scary, as
far as the typical horror genre determines. But at least now I like it, because Bruce Willis
does a really good job and the ending makes me cry.” Luckily the ending didn’t make me
cry, nor did I get scared: my focus the entire time was on the angel in my arms. We propped
up our legs on the coffee table, and she wrapped her right leg around my left, playing with
my toes with her striped-colored socks.
“Do you want to go to the park?” I asked once the movie finished.
She seemed confused. “Didn’t we just go to the park?”
“Not that park. There’s a park down the street from here.”
“Okay,” she said with a sheepish grin.
We left the house and walked down the street, reaching North Park. We’d been here before,
last week. We passed the Gazebo where couples make out, stenciling their names in the
wooden railing. Taking the gravel path, we wound between the trees that led to the bridge
spanning the creek. We stood upon that wooden bridge, holding hands and watching the
creek below, the water gurgling and sliding along smooth stones, minnows flirting back
and forth between the rocks, crayfish hiding in the shadows. Her hand felt warm in mine,
and I interlaced her fingers within my own. She laid her head against my shoulder and
closed her eyes, listening to the flowing stream. Feeling her breath against my neck
stenciled out a portrait of our heavenly home. How long we stood there, I don’t know. The
sun began to set behind the trees, casting ribbons of light between the multi-hued leaves
and sprawling branches; the water dappled against the creek and sparkled.
“I have something I want to show you,” I told Rebecca.
“Oh. Is this a surprise?”
“Something like that. It’s my favorite place in the park.”
We followed dirt trails through the trees, then cut off from the path and climbed a hill,
following what used to be a dry creek bed. We reached the crest of the hill and pushed
through heavy trees, entering a clearing strewn with tall grasses and spilling ferns. The far
end of the clearing met up against seven-foot-tall weeds sprouting blue and white flowers.
ANTHONY BARNHART
In the middle of the clearing sat a fallen tree. We pushed through the grasses and reached
the tree. I sat down on top of it, took Rebecca’s hands, and she sat down next to me. From
our vantage point, we looked to the west through the trees and could see the orange sun
glowing, its light fractured by branches and leaves.
She spoke: “What are you thinking?”
“What am I thinking?” I quizzed myself. Squeezing her hand, “I don’t know.”
“I think you’re a liar. You know where liars go?”
“I really wasn’t thinking anything! Just admiring the sunset.”
“The sunset is pretty.”
“Especially how it breaks through the trees. Don’t you think?”
She pulled out her camera, flipped it open, snapped a picture. “I do.”
Silence for a few more moments. I asked her, “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” she said with a smile. “Just admiring the sunset.”
“Sure,” I said with a twinkle in my eye.
The sun began to die, darkness wrapping around the trees.
Rebecca: “What are you thinking?”
A pause, then, “Do you really want to know?”
“Of course I want to know,” Rebecca told me. “Come on. Be honest!”
I didn’t answer.
Rebecca pleaded with me. “Anthony! Please? Pretty, pretty please?”
I looked into those devilish eyes. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you.”
She didn’t say anything for several moments.
Embarrassment flooded through me, and my face became flustered as I struggled to
discover what she thought of my answer: “What are you thinking?” I asked.
She didn’t answer at first, then, “Nothing.”
“Rebecca. I answered you honestly.”
“I don’t know. I mean… Why do you want to kiss me so much?”
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s because I like you. I’ve always liked you. I like everything about
you. You’re my precious treasure. I want to be with you. I want to hold you. I want to kiss
you and tell you everything will be okay even when your world is being shot to hell.”
She didn’t speak for several seconds. The darkness deepened. “I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what? Me kissing you?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I mean…” She struggled for words: “I want to kiss you, but I’m
afraid.”
Our heads came close together, our eyes inches apart, our lips so close. My heart
hammered behind my ribs. “Why are you afraid? I mean, if you want to kiss me-’’
“My mom married the first boy she ever kissed. And then he abandoned her.”
“And you’re afraid that I’ll abandon you.”
“Yes,” she said. “I want to kiss you, but I’m afraid… of being hurt, I guess.”
I squeezed her arm. “That’s okay.” Our lips were close, but I pulled away. “That’s
okay.”
Rebecca’s phone rang. She turned and answered it. She spoke for a few seconds, then
hung up. “It’s Elizabeth. She wants to know if we’re on our way.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“The party!” I exclaimed. “I totally forgot. Yes, yes, let’s go.”

As we walked back and passed over the bridge, I stopped, holding Rebecca’s hand in
mine. “I’m sorry you’re afraid,” I told her.
She looked up at the moon glowing overhead, the last tendrils of sunlight vanishing.
“Can I kiss you on the cheek?”
A bitter smile. “Yeah.”
I leaned forward, pressed my lips against her cheek, kissed. Ecstasy! Pulling away,
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No.”
Chris Tomlin played on the stereo as I drove the JEEP towards Xenia. Night had fallen,
embracing the earth in its shadows, and the moon and stars hovered above us, quiet
sentinels guarding the darkness. We took Interstate 75 to Interstate 675, and exiting off exit
13A, we made our way down country lanes towards Elizabeth’s grandmother’s house. I
noticed that Rebecca sat quietly in the passenger seat, looking out her window, apparently
lost in a sea of thought. I broke the silent hum of the engine: “Did you really mean what
you said last night? About us being together forever?” She smiled at me, then looked away,
not giving an answer. I shrugged my shoulders and kept driving.
Elizabeth and her boyfriend Kyle had made a delicious dinner for us. We sat down
and ate, and Elizabeth’s grandfather adored me. He even taught me a few of his card tricks,
which made Elizabeth mad (he refused to teach anyone his card tricks). Kyle made a bonfire
outside. We began putting up plastic folding chairs around the fire. Rebecca had been
acting… strange… the entire evening. I pulled her aside and asked her, “Do I make you
uncomfortable? Be honest. You seem uncomfortable.” She told me she was fine. “Am I too
weird? Am I being too weird? I can be less weird.” She laughed and told me that
everything was okay: “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine. Great, even.” We sat around
the bonfire and talked. Kyle and Elizabeth placed their chairs close together and held
hands. I tried to move my chair next to Rebecca’s, but she got up and moved her chair
closer to Elizabeth. Kyle cast me a strange look, confused. I tried holding Rebecca’s hand,
but she kept refraining. I did not concentrate much on the conversation. I couldn’t interpret
Rebecca’s actions. I attributed them to another of her strange moods; she said she had them
often, and usually at night. The clock nearly struck midnight.
The party ended. Elizabeth and Rebecca talked for a few moments as I got the JEEP
started. Kyle walked around and leaned inside my open window. “Beast.” He had given
me the nickname “Beast” our freshman year, due to a stunt I would pull by running up
flights of stairs on my hands and feet. Like an animal, like a Beast. “Is everything cool with
you two?”
“Me and Rebecca?” I asked. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
“She seemed a little different today. Maybe it’s just me. I just wanted to check.”
“Thanks. But everything’s fine. She even said everything is great. I think she’s just in
one of her moods, you know?”
“Well, she usually goes to bed around 9:30, and it is 12:30.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
I drove her home and dropped her off, walking her to her front door. We held one
another for a moment, and she felt stiff. I kissed her on the cheek. She seemed to recoil. I
looked her in the eyes, trying to read them, but she gave me no foothold. I wished her a
good night and watched her in. On my drive home, she texted me: “Drive safe! I can’t wait
to see you tomorrow! And don’t miss me too much till then!”
When I reached my hometown, I pulled into Springboro Park and parked the JEEP
along the road. I crept through a thicket to a field with broken corn stalks. Sitting down, I
lit a cigarette and gently smoked, thanking God for all that He had given me. I felt guilty
for smoking, so I tossed it away. My addiction had snagged me once again. My breath
fogged as I breathed, and a shiver ran up my spine. A car honked on the road. A policeman
patrolled. A crow shrieked nearby. I got into my JEEP and drove home, totally complacent
with my life. I fell asleep with a wide smile on my face.
I was in love.
I woke up the next morning with a strange feeling in my gut: something’s not right. The
moment I woke it struck me: a pit in my stomach, devouring me; butterflies danced in my
heart; a cold sweat popping over my brow. I quickly showered and drove to church,
teaching on the prophet Joel and his multi-colored yet singly-faceted messages to the
people of Israel. The words flowed from my mouth, smooth as honey, and the students
found the life and teachings of Joel interesting. Yet my closest friends who were there
noticed I was out-of-character. Chris asked me, “You all right? You seem a little out of it.” I
told him I was fine. “How’s the girl?” “Good,” I told him; “Great.”
My friends Pat, Chris, and Ashlie came over after church. We grilled chicken and
made macaroni and cheese. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right, and
the more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that it centered on Rebecca:
something did not feel right. I texted her a few times, and she did not reply. I called her: no
answer. My friends left around 4:00, and I took a drive, picked up a BLACK&MILD, and
smoked. It was the only thing I knew to do to relieve the tension, suspense, the
nervousness dwelling within me. The tobacco relaxed me. I stopped at Walrus Park and
walked between the flowing streams laden with statues of walruses, some speckled with
paintball pellets. Coins glistened in the bottom of the manmade streams. I sat along a stone
wall circling a fountain coming from between a walrus’s two front teeth. My phone buzzed.
I reached for it and saw that it was from Rebecca. My heart sprinted as I flipped it open and
read it: “Please stop texting me.” Perhaps foolishly, I did text her back: “Did I do something
wrong?” She responded a few minutes later, “It’s not you, exactly. I’ll explain tonight. Stop
texting me.” And that was that. I hurled the plastic butt of the cigar into the fountain pool
and headed back to the JEEP, driving back to campus. I felt nauseas the entire way, my mind
and heart in bundles. I wrote in my journal before I left for campus:
I have a really, really, really bad feeling that [Rebecca] might be breaking up
with me. If she does, I’ll be convinced that it’s God’s way of making my life
miserable because of my sin, and that my luck with girls is fatalistic: give
ANTHONY BARNHART
up! Girls don’t like you! You’re an embarrassment to them! I want to cry and
scream and throw up all at the same time.
Sitting upon the stone wall overlooking the city, a tidal wave of memories assaulted me. I
hadn’t eaten since lunch (and even then had barely touched my food), yet any hunger
became obsolete with the invasion of nervousness. I could barely breathe, couldn’t think.
Rebecca had asked to meet there at that time. I had showed up early, my shaking legs
carrying me up the long flight of steps from Restoration Hall. I watched the blanket of
lights spread before me, the lit-up bridges spanning the shadowy Ohio River, Covington
and Newport sparkling with their rabid nightlife. Emergency lights flashed along the
intersecting highways. Those images faded into the telescopic reel forcing memories before
me: sitting out on this wall with Rebecca many times before, confessing my feelings for her,
seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, the gentle taste of her cheek.
“Hi.” She sat down beside me. I noticed she kept an indiscriminate distance.
I cut right to the chase. “What’s wrong?”
She hung her head low. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me right away.”
“You’ve kept me in the dark all day. How do you expect me to respond?”
She sighed, staring at her feet. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I knew what was coming, but I had to be sure. “Sorry about what?”
“Me. You. I don’t…” She looked up at me with sorrowful eyes. “We’re not working.”
“What do you mean?” I protested, my heart turning to stone. “We just started—’’
“I can’t see myself being with you,” Rebecca told me. “I know I said I could, but-’’
“You lied?”
“No!” she exclaimed. “No, I didn’t lie. I was just… confused.”
“You were confused, so you told me that you wanted to be with me forever?”
She clenched her fists, frustrated. I didn’t care; anger cried out to explode, but I kept it
reigned. She told me, “Anthony… I couldn’t tell my mom today… I couldn’t tell her… that I
liked you.”
I looked away from her and stared at the city. Thoughts—whispers—consumed me:
“Can this really be happening? Again?”
“Don’t be surprised. This isn’t anything new. This always happens.”
“Every time you thank God for a blessing, He takes it away.”
And so the seed of fate was sown.
Rebecca spoke after a moment: “I’m sorry.”
“I really don’t know what to say.” A pause. “What do you want me to say? That
everything’s fine? That it’s completely okay? Because you’re not going to get that, Rebecca.
You tell me that you’ll always like me, that you want to be together forever… And last
night you tell me that everything is great… And you knew then, didn’t you? You knew that
you were going to break up with me, even when you told me not to worry?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know what to do.”
“Maybe we could have talked about it?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ve never been in a relationship before.
I don’t know how these things work.”
I drew a deep breath, feeling icicles growing on my ribs, heart turned stone-cold. “It’s
all right,” I said, forcing it to come out. The last thing I wanted was for her to undergo the
pain that I was enduring that very second.
“I didn’t want to hurt you. It hurts me to hurt you.” She began crying.
“Don’t cry,” I told her. “It’s okay.” My mood had entirely changed—I still don’t
understand how.
She wept, “I’m sorry,” then stood and walked away, leaving me alone.
I sat there, staring at the city. So that was that. Another relationship… dead. I leapt to my
feet and began walking around campus. Memories began to assault me once more. I saw
her window lit, figures moving inside, silhouettes against the drawn drapes. I could see the
shorter figure (Rebecca) sitting on the bed; and Elizabeth standing, talking with her. I saw
the shorter figure bow her head in her hands; praying? crying? I moved on, past the library,
towards President’s Hall, where we had enjoyed many meals together. I could hear her
melodious laughter, her playful teasing; I saw the deep wells in her eyes, drowning me in
their seduction; and I felt her body close to mine, her warm breath tingling against my
neck, her quiet whispers: “I want to be with you forever.” And I saw a great anvil, falling,
landing upon my heart: the ventricles twisted open, the soft muscle tearing, and blood ran
down through cracks in the cement, forming a silhouette of Rebecca’s face.
I opened the door to my parent’s bedroom. Mom turned and ran over to me, embraced me,
wept. I had been unable to remain on campus: the tears had finally assaulted me as I strode
back towards my dorm, and I had fallen on my hands and knees in the grass, tears running
down ruby-red-blotched cheeks. I had told the coffee shop I would not be in, and I had
driven home, crying the entire way, my entire life sucked out of me. I cried out to God for
peace, but it did not come. By the time I returned home, my tears had dried out; my mom’s,
however, had not, and she wrapped her arms around me and wept, repeating over-and-
over, “My baby, my baby, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, my baby…”
My father entered the room and gave me a swift hug. “You doing all right?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m fine.” I felt like I was already lying in my grave.
“Good. You’ll be fine,” he told me, squeezing my shoulder. “Tell me: is there anything
—anything at all—that I can do for you?”
I shook my head. “No… I’m just going to go out for a little bit.”
“Don’t do anything foolish or rash, okay?”
“I won’t, Dad, I promise.”
Amber was not home; she was out with her boyfriend Luke. I drove to the
MARKETPLACE XPRESS on 741, a gas station and convenience store opened 24/7. I walked in
under the glaring night lamps and walked to the front. An older man noticed walked
towards me around the corner, donned in the blue employee outfit: “CAMEL LIGHTS?” I told
him yes. He pulled them out and scanned them. As I handed him the five dollar bill, he
said, “Haven’t seen you for a few weeks now.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“My girlfriend made me stop smoking.” I refused to call her my ex-girlfriend. Perhaps
refusing to admit it somehow made it less real?
He chuckled. “Better not let her find out about this!”
“Doesn’t matter,” I muttered as he rang out the change. “She broke up with me.”
He frowned, handing me the change. “I’m sorry, Brother. You okay with it?”
Taking the sparse change—a few quarters and a nickel—“I’ll be fine.”
He crossed his arms. “Girls are bitches, Man. Remember that. Girls are bitches.”
I sat out on the deck, looking up at the stars and lonely moon. The cigarette smoldered
between my fingers, the smoke trailing upwards and disappearing. I drew in a stiff drag,
let the smoke fill my lungs, and exhaled. The smoke vanished, much as did my happiness.
Any gift given is always taken the moment you begin to really appreciate and enjoy it. Those
words echoed over and over in my mind.
Amber came out onto the deck, holding her own pack of cigarettes. “Can I join you?”
“Yeah,” I told her, nodding to one of the plastic folding chairs.
She sat down, lit up a CAMEL TURKISH ROYAL, and began to smoke. A few minutes later,
she asked, “How are you doing with it?”
“Shitty,” I told her. “This feels like a living hell.”
She sighed. “I can kill her for you. If you want.”
A fake smile crossed over my lips. “Thanks. But I’ll refrain.”
We smoked together in silence.
“I loved her,” I told Amber. “I really loved her. I didn’t love Sammy. But I loved
Rebecca. I still love her.”
“Love sucks most of the time,” Amber said.
I shook my head, groaned, “Most of the time? All the time.”
Those were all the words we exchanged, yet we smoked several cigarettes together.
The silence, her presence, my best friend… it meant the world to me. I went to bed, tossing
and turning upon the leather couch: I did not want to sleep in my room, for a reason I can’t
really explain. The truth is, I don’t know why my own bed was so repulsive that night. I
wrote a few words in my journal and fell asleep after a rough hour.
Sitting on the hill, Rebecca told me, “I don’t think I like you anymore.” She
cried. I sat in silence, stunned. Shocked. Thinking, “I should’ve expected
this.” I took a walk around campus and wept. I really like this girl—so
beautiful, so charming, so unique. I really saw myself with her! I returned
home and cried again. I flip through this journal, reminiscing on our time
together, and it makes it hurt all the more. I don’t want a girlfriend. I want
Rebecca! I want to hold her, comfort her, be with her—forever. “Why has
this happened to me?” I made a promise to her and didn’t keep it. I lied to
her. I treated her like shit. Hell, I treated God like shit: He gave me this
perfect gift, and I trashed it. So He took it away. I deserve this, I know it. I
really fucked up this time. I want to cry. I want my Rebecca.
ANTHONY BARNHART
On that day, a new chapter dawned in my life. It was the beginning of the darkest era of my
life, when I would change, fall apart, and then begin the process of being rebuilt: my
perspective on the world would be changed, my views on relationships would be altered,
and my understanding of the character and nature of God—“who God is”—would be
passed through the fire—to be purified or destroyed.
ANTHONY BARNHART
ANTHONY BARNHART
CHAPTER FIVE
The Twisting Blade of Fate
“He wants to know what went wrong. He’s thinking God told him this was
right, an answer to his prayers for love, and gone before the evening turned
to night.”
(David Adams)
Three years ago, I had my life completely planned-out. I was going to graduate high school,
go to college, meet my wonderful wife, graduate college, get married, hold a quiet job in a
small town as a teacher, and raise a decent family. Now I don't know what I want. I don't
know what I want to do. Everything was so clear back then; now I feel like I'm drowning in
a cloud of the unknown.
I know what I want in life. I want to one day be a teacher. I want to be a good husband and
a good father. I want to raise a family and see my kids grow up to be parents, and I want to
hold my grandchildren in my arms. This is what I so strongly desire. My every prayer is
filled with pleas to God: "Make my dream a reality!" Perhaps I am being selfish. But God
knows that this is the desire of my heart. Why veil it in silence when He already knows
what I want, even if it's totally selfish? I don't think it's too selfish. I see men using and
abusing girls all the time. I see girls totally cynical, thinking there are no more good men on
the planet. I want to show them that such a worldview is not totally accurate. I want to
show them that real love exists.
But more and more each day, I begin to doubt if God is going to bring me what I so
desperately desire. With each girlfriend, with each interest, I become more and more
cynical, more and more jaded. I thought I had found "the One." And the next day she
dropped me. Things like these make me wonder if there is such a thing as hope. Make me
wonder if there's ever a chance in the world that things will get better. Make me wonder if
I'm destined to be alone all the time. Make me wonder if I will have to "settle."
I feel wholly inadequate in every dimension of my life.

I feel inadequate at being the person God wants me to be. I fail every day in a myriad
of ways.
I feel inadequate at being the good friend I want to be.
I feel inadequate at being the good boyfriend I want to be one day.
I feel inadequate at being the good husband and good father that I pray to be one day.
I feel inadequate spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I feel inadequate in that I will never find "the One" because I am so unattractive.
Yet I am told I am not unattractive at all. Why can't I believe it?
Every day I walk the fine line between walking away from God and running toward Him. I
tiptoe the fine line of apathy; I want more, but I am not willing to discipline myself.
On top of all this, I am very confused. I don't know who I am. I don't know why I'm here.
Am I supposed to just "figure it out" as life goes on? That sounds very unappetizing for me.
I cannot set goals for myself and find hope in the future if I do not know what that future
holds.
"What if everything I desire is never going to be experienced?"

“What if I will simply walk this destitute earth in searching of a resolution that will
never come?”
“What if my every prayer is futile?”
“What if my daily existence really is worthless?”
“What if I have been abandoned?”
- Journal Entry
ECHOES OF A SHATTERED HOPE
I woke up to quiet light streaming in through the living room windows. For a moment I felt
disoriented, then the pain blitzed me once more: my heart died. All night long I had dreamt
of kissing Rebecca, of holding her in my arms; I saw her wearing her white, flowing
wedding dress, her diamond necklace sparkling; and I felt her hands in mine on our
wedding night as we stared deeply into one another’s eyes, refusing to betray the burning
desire spreading through us. And when I awoke, all of that left: the desire to love and be
loved remained, but its manifestation had been stripped from my grasp. I spent a lot of
time in prayer, and I even talked to Rebecca a little bit.
God comforted me, “This happened so you could learn a lesson: you need to find your
worth and happiness in Me, not in others.” He seemed to be helping me get over the
breakup, and I felt zero animosity towards Rebecca. I felt that God was really working on
my heart: comforting me, kissing me, telling me everything would be A-okay, and inviting
me to a closer walk of fellowship with and devotion to Him. I knew it would take some
time to “get over” Rebecca, but I was convinced that we’d end up being really good friends.
Seeking the prime out of the situation, I learned three very important lessons. First: “Don’t
get your hopes up.” And thus was born the cynicism and skepticism that would guide
much of my life over the coming months. I also learned: “Do not rush anything.” I believed
that my adamancy in the woods had been a stepping-stone, a deciding factor, in the
ANTHONY BARNHART
breakup. In the future months, I would curse that day and my stupidity in begging Rebecca
to let me kiss her when she was not yet ready. Finally, I learned: “Know what you want.”
Amber and I stood out on the deck smoking. She told me, “You’re ready to settle down,
Anthony. You need to find a girl who is ready to settle down. Your relationship with
Rebecca was doomed from the beginning, because you both wanted something different.
She just wanted a boyfriend because she had never been with one before. You wanted to
continue your search for ‘the One.’ And your search, in a sense, was successful: I mean, after
all, you did rule out one possible candidate.” I know she meant that to be encouraging, but
it only made the hurt worse—I wanted her to be ‘the One,’ no one else.
After hugging my mom goodbye, shaking my father’s hand, and sharing a last
cigarette with Amber, I got into the JEEP and headed back towards campus. I rolled the
windows down, felt the beautiful, heaven-sent breeze, and a smile crossed my lips. I tried
to find something positive in the break-up, and one thing kept dancing over and over in
my mind: “You’re a free bird, now. And you cannot be caged!” I had been caged by
Rebecca’s affections, but I had been released. For a moment I felt thankful for the break-up,
but the second I pulled up the hill and onto campus, all of that changed. I wrote in my
journal that night while sitting in my dorm room, waiting for Caleb to return from work:
Upon returning to campus, a whole host of emotions ran through me.

Memories confronted me. I wanted to cry. I want to cry. I sat in the coffee
shop, up at the bar, dazed and confused, surrounded by laughter and even
forcing some, but inside dying, where no one could see. I went to my room
at seven in the evening, too depressed to remain awake. I tried to sleep, but
it failed. I have just been sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall,
fighting off the tears. I can still hear her voice. I can still hear her telling me,
“I couldn’t tell my mom that I liked you.”
Somehow I fell asleep, even before Caleb returned. I purposely skipped my Basic
Bible Doctrines class at 8:30. Instead I took my journal to The View, sitting on the bench
where Rebecca first confessed her feelings for me—and also her fear. Where I had told her
that I was willing to risk being hurt; but standing knee-deep in the swampland of
emotional hell, I took that back. I wrote, with my long blond hair falling around my eyes:
I want to be with Rebecca. Depression begins to overtake me, a dark cloud

settling over me. “There is no hope. You are cursed. You always fuck things
up. Look at you, such an abominably distasteful person. Why do you even
hope? Why do you even dream? You know things will never work out. You
had the best—and God took it from you! He does not want you to be
happy.” Yet I know these whispers in the back of my mind are lies. But it
still… upsets me… that Rebecca would date me just to have a boyfriend and
to make me happy [she confessed to these being the reasons for dating me
when we talked on the phone for a few minutes yesterday]. She didn’t even
ANTHONY BARNHART
really like me! And it bothers me even more that she would tell me, “I am
thinking about how I hope we are together forever,” and “I will not lose my
feelings for you, okay? Don’t worry!” and the entire time not even mean it!
Do you have any idea how much agony that causes a person—a hopeless
romantic—like me?! Now I will have an even harder time believing girls
when they talk about liking me. Ashlie thinks Rebecca’s fear just
overwhelmed her, and she bailed because of it—life is better dull and safe
than beautiful and full of risks. I don’t know. Rebecca even told me, “It’s not
because I’m scared. It’s because I don’t like you anymore.” All I know is that
she left me. Eventually I will be “with” another girl, and if Rebecca does not
come crawling back, it will not be her. Trista told me, “She has no idea what
she’s missing. She screwed you over, but—ultimately—she screwed herself
over.”
Three times that Tuesday afternoon and evening I went to The View, thankful not to run
into Rebecca or Elizabeth. Three times I prayed, and I kept coming to Matthew 7.7-11,
where Jesus says, “God gives good gifts to His children.” I wondered if God were in fact
trying to tell something to the poor boy?
I called Rebecca and asked her if I treated her right.
She said, “You treated me how I expected to be treated. Is that what you mean?”
Why do girls always have to turn everything into riddles? I said, “I mean, did I treat
you like a princess, how you deserve to be treated?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Of course.”
“Good,” I said, “Because the thought of treating you badly tortures me.”
I wrote in my journal:
Am I over Rebecca? No. I see pictures of us together, and it breaks my heart.

This always happens! Oh! I just want to hold Rebecca’s hand, to kiss her on
the cheeks, but my life is painfully cyclical. Is there any need for me to
pray? Nothing changes for this sorry son of a bitch.
A friend and I shot pool in the STUDENT LIFE CENTER next to the Hilltop Coffee Shop. He kept
sinking his balls; mine bounced across the felt and hit the edges, never sinking. He read the
mask of gloom across my face and asked, “What’s wrong, Man?”
“Life,” I told him. “Life and all its trimmings.” I put down my stick and walked away.
I could not bear company. I felt his eyes watching me in shock as I simply exited through
the doors to the patio and vanished up the steps towards the front of the worship ministry
building.
I went to the View and wept.
Each day was flushed with emotion. Walking across campus hurt. I would travel to
Newport to get away, to smoke cigarettes and look at the city lights, and the memories of
being there with Rebecca struck a chord of pain in the gut of my existence, its
ANTHONY BARNHART
reverberations shaking every bone in my body. I kept “feeling” Rebecca, and it raised a
knot in my throat. Even in the sanctuary of my own room, I could not keep her out.
Everything reminded me of her. I would remember pacing back and forth in the room,
talking to her in quiet, cooing whispers, and her echoing them right back. No more. Such
things never last. “Vanity of vanities,” as Amos told me.
There was no dancing around it—I bathed in a sea of genuine, Grade-A, pure and
uncut depression. Much of my frustration began to pour onto God. “Mere words,” I wrote
in my journal, “cannot capture the bitter emotional cocktail of anger, sorrow,
hopelessness… and the hostility I have towards God.” I wrote of my anger with God:
I am angry because He makes me a romantic, then leaves me all alone in the

wasteland of relationships.
I am angry because this pain is all I’ve ever known, and despite countless
prayers and sacrifices, romantic tragedy continues to be the highlight
of my life.
I am angry because God can help, but apparently He doesn’t want to; if He
did want to, then He would have helped me.
I am angry because God promises one thing, but up to this point, He has
delivered something completely opposite.
I am angry because God lets me be hurt over and over and does absolutely
nothing.
I am angry because I’ve given so much to God, but yet He refuses to allow
me to have what I really want: a genuine, godly, healthy, romantic
relationship.
Another night’s rest did not ease the pain. I worked with Trista in the coffee shop that
morning; she could tell that the situation bothered me deeply, even though I refused to
admit it. She texted me later and asked if I want ed to do homework with her. I met her in
STUDENT LIFE, and we sat down and studied. I studied the prophet Hosea for my Old
Testament Prophecy class, and she worked on Geology II. Trista went through something
similar to my situation then; her ex-boyfriend, a member of a popular band throughout the
Midwest, broke up with her because his friends told him lies about their relationship. Trista
had been emotionally shipwrecked. She did not offer me any advice as we hung out,
though; she knew that the best thing I needed was to get my mind off of the situation. Yet
even when my mind wandered to sweeter, more pleasing things, the depression continued
to grapple my heart and strangle the life from it.
It was then that the bipolar really began to kick in. From that day forward, I would
often be caught amidst cycles of mania and depression. During the periods of mania, I
would be on a natural high. Everything felt great then. I didn’t care about Rebecca at all.
But the periods of depression soon followed, and these periods lasted much longer than the
manic cycles. At these times I would find myself amidst a chaotic cesspool, trying to make
sense of my life without killing myself in the process.
ANTHONY BARNHART
One evening, before Caleb and I ran to LONE STAR STEAKHOUSE for dinner, I wrote in my
journal:
I miss Rebecca! I felt at peace with her; things felt right with her; I had found
contentment. I truly thought she could have been “the One.” Yet it was all a
lie! She didn’t even have any feelings for me!!! She screwed me over, she
wronged me. I wish I could go back to the beginning and change some
things; but there will be no second chance with such a fine girl. I am
heartbroken. I am just so thankful that I treated her right; she even told me
how lucky she was to have such a good person as her first boyfriend. Oh!
How I wish we were still together!
When the next weekend rolled around, Dad came into my room back home and sat down
beside me on the bed. Mellow light filtered in though the blinds. The trees stood bare and
lifeless; mowers hummed down the street; home-owners were gathering the dead leaves in
bags. Halloween was fast-approaching. He paused awkwardly, and I could tell he was
trying to say something. Then, “Did I ever tell you about my first girlfriend?”
“I don’t know, no,” I told him, curled up on my bed.
“It was September of my senior year in high school,” he began. “She was a junior, a
grade below me. We started dating at the beginning of my senior year, and we kept dating
all through the school year, through the summer, and through my first year of college.
When I came back for summer, I spent an evening at her house. When I left, she said
everything was great. But I knew, deep down, in a way I can’t really explain, that our night
together was our last.”
I laughed. “So apparently we both have that sixth sense when it comes to these things.
I felt the same way the Sunday that Rebecca broke up with me.”
He nodded: “I guess so.” He continued, “In the morning she called and said, ‘I’m
calling just to let you know that I don’t want to date anymore. I’m sorry. I don’t want you
calling me.’ And then she hung up. I didn’t sleep too well that night,” he said, glowering.
“All summer I was distraught. I saw her every once in a while, and sometimes she was with
the new boy she was dating. It tore me up, Anthony. I didn’t know how I could ever find
anyone better than her. It was almost a year to that day when I met your mother.”
His story really encouraged me. My ex-girlfriend was an amazing girl, and while I
was nowhere near content with not being with her, some sort of inspiration came from his
words. It was encouraging to know that what happened to me was not something
uncommon. I was not a “select case.” It happened to my dad, and he is one of the most
amazing men of God whom I know. It was also encouraging to know that while he felt like
there was no hope for him, hope was just around the corner. That night I slept well,
thinking, “Hope is just around the corner for me, too!”
My depression returned with the sunrise.
ANTHONY BARNHART
My life became a whirlwind of boiling emotions which I could not control. A harsh wind
had come up from the great chasms of my desert life, and I stumbled through the darkness,
groping after something—anything!—that could offer any kind of relief. I spent my days
mulling over my fate, remembering Rebecca, trying to soothe my aching heart—and yet
failing. I could not escape the feelings that grew with each passing day. I felt as if I were
standing on a deserted island, seeing the only hope—a feeble little sailboat—floating away
into the sunset—and the sands became cold, the wind numbing, and the ocean spray burnt
my face. Such an entry in my journal captures my days:
Sleep has been escaping me.

Sickness is overcoming me.
Sadness looms like a dark shadow.
I am lonely.
At least I have good friends. That's more than a lot of people can claim.
And God is good... even if sometimes it feels like He's forgotten you.
And:
All these feelings consume me. It's so different than it ever was before.
My life is falling apart.
I find myself groping around in the darkness, searching for a breath of life. I
find nothing.
How long will I be stuck in this darkness?

How long until I come into the light?
Does the light even exist?
A HINT OF LIGHT
When I first found out that I potentially had bipolar disorder, I began researching it to find
out what it truly was. The results of that research were several entries on my xanga. The
first read:
Life has been really hard lately. I have been bathing in an ocean of
confusion, chaos, fear, worry, and I have found myself dancing amongst
seasons of hopelessness, despair, and futility.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I probably have what is called either Bipolar Disorder or Manic-Depression.

This is a type of depression. Depression affects one of five Americans in
their lifetime, and one in twenty Americans experience depression for long
periods of time. Depression is a clinical event where one experiences
feelings of sadness, gloominess, or melancholy for extended periods of time.
These periods of time can last weeks or even years. My last long bout of
depression lasted from age 11 to age 13, and at age 12 I attempted suicide.
Manic-Depression is a type of depression that affects 2 million Americans at

any one time (and I am one of them). Those suffering manic-depression go
through cycling moods of being overly elated/irritable (mania) and feeling
sad/hopeless (depression), with periods of normal moods in-between. It is
very disruptive to daily life and distressing in every sense of the word. The
frequency and duration of the cycles vary person to person; as it is, I
experience it severely, with ultradian cycling—the fastest cycling. Such
depression begins early in adolescence and continues throughout the rest of
life, affecting one's work, family, and social life. Oftentimes I have felt guilty
for being depressed or bipolar, but I must remember that it is a clinical
disorder; it is not a character flaw, and I am not less of a person because of
it.
"How does Manic-Depression come about?" First of all, genetics and family
history have a big role in deciding whether you will be plagued with it. My
mom's side of the family is drenched with this disorder, and at age 20 it
begins to reach its peak of harshness (I am 19 years old). Increased stress
and inadequate coping mechanisms contribute to the intensity of the cycles.
It is a physiological and psychological disorder: it is a clinical problem,
having nothing to do with a person's worth or with a person's spiritual
status. The cycles can come-and-go on their own or can be triggered by
external events. The sufferer experiences moods, thoughts, and feelings for
which there is no apparent cause. Life can be going great, but then you feel
dark, sad, and hopeless. You could feel blue on the day you get married to
the love of your life just because you have this disorder; it is traumatizing.
My last year-long bout, as I said, lasted from age 11 to 13. In May of this
year, I could tell that I was entering into yet another long cycle (I hope it is
not years long!). Seven months into this cycle, things are not getting better.
All the stress I've been going through has only escalated the symptoms; one
minute I'm feeling like I can handle life, and the next minute I am praying
for the strength to just continue through my day-to-day activities. Feelings
of darkness, gloom, and hopelessness crowd in around me at every corner.
ANTHONY BARNHART
Some moments it seems too hard to go on, but I know that this is a clinical
problem that is being treated. It will just take some time--and lots of prayer.
So I ask that everyone, even if you do not know me, would pray for me.
Pray that God will comfort me, soothe me, and give me strength to endure
this difficult time.
The other day, I heard someone say that Christians who are depressed aren't
really Christians at all, because Christians experience joy because the Holy
Spirit in them. To that person and to whomever holds that view: "Shut up,
you ignorant fools."
I am seeking new medicine (my current medicine isn't working). I am

spending lots of time in prayer and meditation. I am seeking help with a
counselor. I am doing all I can to take care of this difficult period of time in
my life. I'm sorry to anyone whom I've offended because of this disorder,
and I'm sorry that I am not the same person I was last semester. I wish I
were, but, the truth is, I cannot help it. This has been thrown upon me; I
have no choice in the matter.
And then:
When Benjamin Franklin invented bifocals, some skeptics called them

“devil eyes.” These skeptics were legalistic Christians who believed that if
one had enough faith in God, then a person’s eyesight would be healed.
These legalistic ideologies thrust loads of false guilt upon those unlucky
enough to experience the physical problem of bad eyesight. Nowadays, no
one condemns glasses, aspirin, penicillin, or migraine medications, but
many people condemn taking medication for such physiological ailments as
depression, O.C.D., anxiety, mood swings, schizophrenia, social phobia,
paranoia, and A.D.H.D. These people fail to realize that these mental
problems stem not from a spiritual source but a physiological source: the
problem lies not in the person but, rather, within the person’s organ (the
brain). If someone suffers a heart attack and needs a pacemaker, no one
objects; but if someone goes on anti-depressants, objections come from
every direction. “Why?” I want to know. “Is the brain not an organ just like
the heart, submissive to a fallen state and possible degradation?”
Because of the Fall, the whole scope of creation—from galaxies to microbes

—is undergoing degradation. The creation is falling apart more and more
each day (though, one day, God will restore it to its original beauty and
goodness). This degradation takes place in our bodies as well, and one of
the organs that is submissive to the curse of the fallen creation is the brain.
ANTHONY BARNHART
The majority of mental illnesses stem from an imbalance in four main brain
chemicals: serotonin, dopamine, G.A.B.A., and norepinephrine.
Serotonin is the leading culprit in most cases of depression. Serotonin is

made only in the brain, floating in the synapses (or spaces) between our 40
billion brain and nerve cells. “Reuptake Sites” keep the serotonin in balance.
When the serotonin is in balance, it helps the person experience love, joy,
peace, long-suffering, gentleness, and meekness. It also helps provide
energy during the day and great sleep at night. When the serotonin is out-
of-balance (a result of the Fall), the person does not experience its effects
very well. The person becomes depressed, unloving, impatient, fatigued,
withdrawn, guilt-ridden, “pained”, irritable, less gentle, and has a hard
time exercising self-control.
Dopamine gives the person sanity. When the dopamine is out-of-balance,

the person may experience three levels of “insanity.” First, the person may
have difficulty holding thoughts or experience paranoia. More severely, the
person may begin hearing audible voices, often saying negative things
about them (“Is this God? An angel? A demon?” None of the above! It is a
dopamine deficiency!). In the most severe cases, the person becomes
delusional, sometimes even to the point of believing he or she is God or
Jesus Christ.
G.A.B.A. (Gamma-Amino-Butyric-Acid) helps curb worries, lessen shyness,

provide muscle relaxation, and ease substance abuse. Those with deficient
levels of G.A.B.A. experience lots of anxiety, paranoia, and may become
easily addicted to substances.
Norepinephrine helps regulate a person’s energy, motivation, sexual

pleasure, and it also helps improve mental focus. Those with low
norepinephrine may experience sexual dysfunction, chronic fatigue,
forgetfulness, lessened motivation, and depression. Those with high
norepinephrine may experience anxiety, insomnia, and panic attacks.
When these four brain chemicals (serotonin, dopamine, G.A.B.A., and

norepinephrine) work together as God created them to, the person feels
better and enjoys life more, despite the circumstances. However, those with
deficiencies in these chemicals experience mental disorders such as
depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety, schizophrenia, and A.D.H.D. (to name
a few).
Exploring my own life and reflecting on the doctor’s diagnosis, I am pretty

sure I have low levels of norepinephrine and serotonin (resulting in bipolar
ANTHONY BARNHART
disorder, also known as “manic-depression”). Some people may tell me,

“You need to get right with God and everything will get better.” Do we say
this to paraplegics who are in wheel-chairs? If not, then why do some
people become so eager to condemn those with different physiological
ailments? I cannot say it enough: those who suffer mental disorders are no
better or worse than anyone else, they simply have a physiological problem
that can be treated (though not totally cured).
“How am I going about treating my disorder?” Three specific ways.
First, I am taking medicine and eating the right nutrients. Second, I am

going to start going to counseling (I hear it works wonders, and I hope it
will help me deal with the depression). Third, I am deepening my intimacy
with God. While the root of the problem is physiological, we are spiritual
beings, and I truly believe that God has an active power, and that He can
strengthen me and even transform me through these difficult times.
Thanks to everyone for their prayers: my wonderful family first, and then
my wonderful friends (Caleb, Rebecca, Elizabeth, Jessica, Michelle, and
Mark to name a few). Your prayers and encouragement mean so much more
than you know!
Having expressed what was going on in my life—and the possible reality of bipolar
disorder—a friend at school set me down outside a coffee shop and proceeded to explain to
me that Christians cannot be depressed because joy is one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit.
No matter how much I pleaded my own case—from a scientific and theological view—he
refused to allow me the time of day. Finally I thanked him—with not a little bit of sarcasm
—and returned to my dorm, where I angrily stenciled out:
It upsets me when people say that depression and its counterparts are the
result of a bad spiritual life. "Pray more, and you'll be okay." "Find Jesus and
find total joy!" "Depression is a sign that you aren't really a Christian,
because Christians have the Holy Spirit and are joyful." I just want to yell,
"Shut up, ye who bathe in ignorance!" It's a physiological disorder; if it's a
sign of being out of the flock of God, then being a paraplegic or having
some type of genetic disease would also be a sign of being a false Christian
or having a bad spiritual life. Sometimes I wish people would 1. know what
they're talking about, and 2. use common sense.
It really is sad that people do not understand bipolar disorder. I really wish
they would take the time to understand, to learn about it. I wish they would
understand that it is a physiological condition that paralyzes the brain.
Paraplegics are given sympathy, but we with bipolar disorder are often
ANTHONY BARNHART
judged or scolded. It really is painful. When the phases come, “who I am”
changes. I become quiet, shut-down, and quite unlike myself. I am a
humorous guy who makes people laugh. That is what I am known for. Or at
least that’s what I was known for last year. Now I am known as the quiet kid
who stares at the wall and takes long walks, drowning in a chaotic cesspool
of brutal emotions that never seem to end. My brain becomes paralyzed
from operating incorrectly, and I will do things, say things, or think things
that are totally not me. If my problem anything else, I’d be met with
sympathy and lots of concern. But I have been told by many people that my
problem is spiritual, that I am not close enough to God, that I just need to
repent, that I need to “grow up.” They don’t understand that I can’t because
I’m paralyzed in these moments. It’s entirely frustrating. I am thankful, in a
sense, for suffering this, because in my future (and now) I can identify with
those who are suffering likewise.
While knowledge of bipolar disorder—especially the knowledge that it could be treated

with special medicines—brought me some semblance of joy, it did not erase the feelings of
despair and hopelessness, as these words in my journal reflect:
I am so sad right now. I hate this and want it to end but there is nothing I
can do.
I just want to be normal like everyone else. Why does it have to be this way?
It makes me want to cry. I'm not even going to lie.
My phone rang the next day. The caller I.D. read: REBECCA.
I answered: “Hello?”
A pause, then a quiet voice: “Anthony.”
My heart leapt; could she be returning to me?
She continued, “I want you to know… I feel like a jerk for hurting you.”
No such hope of relational repentance. “It’s okay,” I told her in a plain tone.
“How are you dealing with it?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you being honest? I really want to know. Please be honest with me.”
“Honestly?” I crooned. The anger and frustration that had been boiling beneath my
skin for the past few days ruptured in a cataclysmic geyser: “Pardon my French, but I feel
like shit. I feel like you took my heart and toyed with it, tearing it apart in your bare hands.
I feel like you’ve sucked my will to live. I feel like I have nothing left to live for because
everything I ever truly wanted and desired has stomped me down and run off. I feel—’’
The phone hummed. She had hung up on me.
I snapped my phone shut, cursed: “Damn it, Anthony. You’re such a jackass.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
My AIM away message read (I borrowed it from a friend’s away message):
Can you help me remember how to smile?

Make it somehow all seem worthwhile?
How on earth did I get so jaded?
Life's mystery seems so faded.
THE TRUTH UNRAVELS
A few days later, I was eating dinner with Elizabeth in the coffee shop when she got a
phone call. She stood and went outside. I continued eating my southwest chicken tortilla
wrap. She entered a few minutes later, tears streaming down her face. She barely made it
through the door, could hardly walk. She fell over a chair, grabbed her backpack filled with
Bible Lands & Lifeways homework, and turned to head for the door. I leapt up, nearly
tripping over the coffee table, and put a hand on her shoulder. She spun around as if in
shock; I mouthed, What’s wrong? She choked on her words: “Kyle just broke up with me.”
And she stormed out of the coffee shop, disappearing amidst a sea of students.
I tossed the rest of my meal and went down to Kyle’s room. He was playing Gears of
War on his XBOX 360. I shut the door and sat down on his bed. I told him, “Elizabeth
nearly died when you gave her the news. Why?”
He sighed. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Are you doing this just because you’re afraid of her hurting you?”
“No,” he said. He paused the game and set down his controller. “Is she okay?”
“Was I okay when Rebecca broke up with me?”
He shook his head. “It’s complicated. I had to do it.”
“Why, though?” I demanded.
“Anthony,” he said, seemingly exasperated. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
The most I could do with Elizabeth from that point on was empathize with her. I
wrote in my journal that night, after inscribing the details of Kyle breaking up with
Elizabeth:
Sometimes it seems like God is cruel and unloving. It is in these times that
we must do well to remember His goodness and the benefits that He
bestows upon His children.
I sat in my room doing homework. Caleb entered, setting down his car keys and lugging in
a box of chicken alfredo pizza from DOMINOES. I told him nonchalantly, “Sometimes I have
the hope that Rebecca will realize what she lost and come crawling back, begging for a
second chance.”
Caleb nibbled on his pizza. “Do you think that will happen?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
A groan. “No.”
“Neither do I,” he said.
“I wish I could do this all over again, being sure not to make the same mistakes I
made last time.”
“What mistakes?” Caleb asked. “You treated her right. She even told you so.”
“She says that because she has to,” I told him. “In the park… I tried to make her kiss
me.”
“You forced her?” he asked. “That’s not like you at all, Man.”
“No, I didn’t force her. I kind of just… pressured her, I guess. The thing is, I didn’t
even realize I was doing it until afterwards! It struck me the moment she broke up with me.
And I can’t live it down. I feel like I was the shittiest boyfriend possible.”
“I’m sure you did nothing wrong,” Caleb said. “I know you. You wouldn’t do that.”
I shook my head. “I know I’m not going to be with her again. I just have to trust God
that He knows what He is doing with my life.”
The sadness began to completely consume me. The moments of mania and depression
came, but I did not recognize them for what they were. The periods of insane depression
lasted much longer than the manic cycles, and even when I was in a normal state-of-being,
the affects of the depression cycles weighed heavily upon me. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t
sleep, I couldn’t even find joy in those things I had always loved: studying, writing,
reading. I spent my days wandering the dark avenues of my life, exploring dead-ends and
getting caught in a maze of confusion and despair with no way out. I lamented:
I want to be with Rebecca so badly. When will I be over her? When will I
catch a break? Is there such a thing as HOPE for a creature like me? I
remember holding her close, kissing her cheek; I remember her arms
wrapping around me, her squeezing me close; I remember her telling me,
“It’s strange how comfortable I feel in your arms. I’m not even scared at all!”
And “We have only known each for a few months and I can see myself
being with you always. It seems so right.” And her telling me, “I hope we’re
together forever” keeps replaying like a tape recorded in my mind. I
remember thanking God for such a gift—and then the next day, it being
taken from me. It hurts like hell. I feel like I’m an ant and God is the sadistic
kid with the giant magnifying glass, grinning gleefully as I try to escape the
pain of His fierce, fiery lightning-bolts. Oh! How deceptive a lie! I know
God’s goodness comes upon me; I just do not, at this point, understand how
this is His goodness. The pain swarms over me like a tidal wave.
On a dark night, when the rain fell steadily, and thunder cackled in the distance, I crawled
into bed, read the Bible, and prayed: “God, please give me a second chance with Rebecca!
And if so, please do it soon! But if it is not your will, God… Please, please bring me a girl as
good, for I refuse to believe that there is better than Rebecca!” And as I fell asleep, I
ANTHONY BARNHART
thought, Such is my life: heartbreak, heartache, betrayal. If only I were tall, dark, and handsome,
none of this would be an issue.
Elizabeth had a much easier time with her breakup than I did with losing Rebecca. Little
did I know, my mental disorder made the situation 500 times worse than it should have
been (and that is a rough estimate). As I was working in the coffee shop one afternoon,
Rebecca came in and ordered a hot chocolate. She seemed awkward, but I didn’t care. Part
of me wanted her to feel that way. I made the hot chocolate and set it on the counter,
asking, “Do you think there’s a chance that we’ll ever get back together?”
Caught off-guard, she stammered, “What?”
“You? Me? In the future? Sometime. Maybe not even soon.”
She regained her composure, frowned. “No.” Seeing my facial features fall and my
eyes glaze over in discouragement, she said, “I’m sorry that it hurts. I don’t know what to
say except ‘sorry.’” She quickly added, “There is some perfect girl out there for you. She
will like you and even love you for who are without wanting you to change at all. Wait for
her, okay?” I nodded and she left, hot chocolate in hand. Sincere words? I didn’t know.
After much probing and undercover reconnaissance work for me, Elizabeth was able to
find out why Rebecca broke up with me. We sat at one of the round tables on the coffee
shop patio. Most of the leaves had already fallen from the trees. Amos made us hot apple
cider (my own recipe), and we drank it while watching several seniors throw a football.
Elizabeth told me, “Your smoking habit was a big one. She knew that you were
smoking behind her back. She could smell it.”
I cursed under my breath, sipped the cider, stared forward. “What else?”
“Her parents didn’t really like you.”
I eyed her. “What? Why? They never even met me?”
“Her father read some of your blog entries. You mentioned being depressed.”
“Yeah, from time-to-time. It’s nothing I can’t control! He didn’t like me for that?”
“Apparently he thought his little girl deserved better.”
My face burned ruby-red in rage.
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t agree with it, but Rebecca is really close to her
dad.”
I asked quickly, “What else?”
“Okay, this is going to sound harsh—’’
“It’s okay.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s not really—’’
“Elizabeth!” I exclaimed, frustrated. “Just tell me.”
She caressed the warm cup in her hands. “You didn’t… You didn’t live up to her
‘dream guy’ appearance. She wants someone who is tall, dark, and handsome.”
Her words bothered me. I am simply not the most good-looking person. I am not tall,
standing at a height of five feet, four inches (the height of the average Roman soldier), I
have pale skin from German and British stock, and I have a little bit of pudge from a
sluggish metabolism and my short, stocky features.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I called Amber and told her why Rebecca broke up with me. Amber exclaimed, “What a
jerk! What a bitch!”
Caleb told me, “You don’t want a girl like that. Please see that she isn’t good enough
for you.”
Kyle told me matter-of-factly, “She’s a bitch, and she has lots of issues.” Regarding
Elizabeth, he said, “I don’t like her anymore and don’t plan on getting back with her.”
“Why don’t you tell her that, then?” I asked.
Sternly, “I’m not going to tell her. Never.”
I felt so bad for Elizabeth. I would wish such trauma upon myself before even
considering letting it even touch Elizabeth!
So one of the reasons Rebecca broke up with me was because I wasn’t tall, dark, and
handsome. I kept hearing Elizabeth’s words replaying in my head—and resonating like a
poisonous gong in my heart. I scribbled down in my journal:
I feel hopeless regarding girls. I feel totally inadequate. I wonder how a girl
—a good girl—could ever find interest in a sorry-looking guy like me. I feel
so ugly and distasteful. I will never find anyone as good as Rebecca. My life
is a curse. I often feel like God is deliberately screwing me over, making my
life miserable because I’ve fucked up so many times.
I did not sleep well that night. I kept dreaming that Rebecca and I were still together.
The joy of the dream stuck with me all the next day. When she came into the coffee shop
while I was working, my heart literally drained of blood and ached. I ended up eating
dinner with her and a few other people. I just wanted to hold her hand. I crawled into bed
early that night and broke down into tears, crying out to God for help.
Why did He have to bless me, then take away the blessing?
Why did I have to suffer so much?
Was God cruel and heartless?
Was God even there?
Why did my daily existence have to be a living hell?
I was broken, destitute, crushed. I felt abandoned, rejected, forgotten—so alone! Yet I
kept holding firm to the belief that God was with me. He loved me. He cared for me. He
listened to me. One word kept ringing in the back of my mind: patience. How could I be
even more patient? Why couldn’t things just begin to come together for me? I had then
crossed from sadness to despair, echoing the words of Christ upon the cross, “My God, my
God, why have Your forsaken me?” My journal read:
I miss my girlfriend a lot today. There are days when the breakup is easy,
and there are days when the breakup is too much for me to handle. There
are days when I do not mind not being with her, there are days when I am
glad I am not with her, and then there are days like these. Days when my
heart breaks. Days when all the memories flood my mind, when I hear her
ANTHONY BARNHART
soft laughter, feel her breath on my skin, when I can feel her body pressed
against mine and hear her whispering, "I want to make memories with you."
These memories haunt me, plague me, crowd me. They are triggered by
mere words, names, and other associated memories. When they come,
sometimes it means nothing to me, but other times--such as right now--it
feels like a living hell.
Psalm 88 became my cry. I imagined it being engraved on my tombstone:
O Lord, my God, I call for help

by day;
I cry out in the night before thee.
Let my prayer come before thee,
incline thy ear to my cry!
For my soul is full of troubles,
and my life draws near to Sheol.
I am reckoned among those who go
down to the Pit;
I am a man who has no strength,
like one forsaken among the dead,
like the slain that lie in the grave,
like those whom thou dost remember
no more,
for they are cut off from thy hand.
Thou hast put me in the depths of the
Pit,
in the regions dark and deep.
Thy wrath lies heavy upon me,
and thou dost overwhelm me with
all thy waves.
Thou hast caused my companions to
shun me;
thou hast made me a thing of horror
to them.
I am shut in so that I cannot escape;
my eye grows dim through sorrow.
Every day I call upon thee, O Lord;
I spread out my hands to see.
Dost thou work wonders for the
dead?
Do the dead rise up to praise thee?
Is thy steadfast love declared in the
ANTHONY BARNHART
grave,
or thy faithfulness in Abaddon?
Are thy wonders known in the darkness,
or thy saving help in the land of forgetfulness?
But I, O Lord, cry to thee;
in the morning my prayer comes
before thee.
O Lord, why dost thou cast me off?
Why dost thou hide thy face from
me?
Afflicted and close to death from my
youth up,
I suffer thy terrors; I am helpless.
Thy wrath has swept over me;
thy dread assaults destroy me.
They surround me like a flood all day
long;
they close in upon me together.
Thou hast caused lover and friend to
shun me;
my companions are in darkness.
I always dreamt of Rebecca. One dream I remember well is one where I married some girl
and then cheated on her with Rebecca. I woke up depressed: I can never love another. Rebecca
will always plague me. I had told Rebecca that I was over her, and when she found that I was
not, she exploded on me: “I know that you still like me. Why did you tell me you were over
me? I do not want you to think we’ll ever be more than friends, because we never will be.
You lied to me and it hurts. I don’t feel like talking to you right now.” A final blow. A jab to
the throat. She thought she hurt? My limbs were falling off of me, and everything I’d ever
known and trusted and loved seemingly abandoned me—even God. I wished I never
would have met Rebecca.
I’m really sad right now. I really miss Rebecca. I felt at peace with her, it felt
right with her. She told me over and over, "I really, really like you, and I
want to spend the rest of my life with you. And don't worry, Anthony. I'm
not going to reject you like every other girl has." And to know all her words
were lies; she didn't even like me! It hurts so much! She lied to me, played
with my heart, and then she drop-kicked me. I feel betrayed and back-
stabbed. But at the same time, I still really like her, and I want to be with her
despite all she did to me. Sometimes I get the "feeling" that God is just
torturing me because of all the sins of my past. So right now I feel hopeless,
burnt-out, broken, betrayed, and guilty. I hate it.
ANTHONY BARNHART
One Friday night, Caleb and I stayed up till 4:30 in the morning, just talking. “You’re not
yourself,” he said. “Ever since this whole Rebecca thing fell apart, you’ve been someone
else. It’s like you’re… in a funk or something. Everyone is noticing it. They want me to talk
to you about it. We care for you, Man. We want to help you. And it sucks to see you like
this.”
I laid my head on my pillow, stretching out under my jean quilt. “It’s a lot of things.”
Caleb knew he’d have to pry my jaws open to get me to speak. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered.
“Damn it, Anthony. I know you better than anyone else here. You’re the little brother I
never had. Please tell me.”
“I don’t know…” I paused. He began to speak, but I cut him off: “I feel inadequate in
all areas of my life: physically, spiritually, mentally, emotionally. I’m just not good enough
for a girl. I wasn’t good enough for Rebecca.” He began to contradict me, but I kept going:
“And I am having a difficult time trusting the goodness of God, and therefore a difficult
time trusting Him with my life. I feel hopeless in the whole scheme of girls. Utterly
hopeless. I don’t like who I am, I want to change, but I don’t know how. And the motivation
isn’t there, because even if I do change, it won’t change anything. Or, at least, it won’t
change what really matters. I love Rebecca. And she doesn’t love me. That’s that. End-of-
story.”
Caleb didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Why do you think this break-up has
been so hard for you?”
I thought for a moment, gazing at the ceiling. “All my life, Caleb, I’ve wanted a certain
kind of girl. All my life I’ve prayed and prayed and prayed, and I had never been gifted
with an answer. When Rebecca came onto the scene, I met the girl of my dreams. She fit the
bill of what I wanted in every desirable way: her physical beauty, her emotional greatness,
her spiritual devotion, her dazzling personality. She told me, ‘I think we’ll be together
forever.’ I thought she was the deliverance God had for me all along. When she broke up
with me, part of me died. I felt that I’d somehow lost what God had for me, and I’d never
find a girl like her ever again. A whole host of sensations now consume me: feelings of
hopelessness, abandonment by God… And even the quiet desire to die.”
He didn’t say anything after that.
What could he say?
Over the weekend, Rebecca found it necessary to tell me: “My parents don’t like you.”
“Why?!” I demanded. “What did I ever do? I treated you like a princess!”
“They don’t want me talking to you anymore.”
“That’s bullshit!” I exclaimed. “If your parents have a problem with me, they can call
me and tell me to my face.”
She hung up the phone.
ANTHONY BARNHART
THE BITTERNESS SWELLS
That weekend I was able to experience some solace. Finding myself amidst a sea of friends,
I let my thoughts drift away from Rebecca and my desires to be with her. For two nights
straight I went to several parties in my hometown, smoking cigarettes and lighting fires
and saying “No, thank you” to the alcohol.
One of my female friends confessed to liking me the next week. I went to Michelle and
told her about it. She asked me, “Do you like her?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“It’s your call,” Michelle said. “Our friendship won’t be hurt.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t like the girl,” Michelle said. “But that’s just me.”
I told Caleb, and he said, “I’ll shoot you if you pursue a relationship with her.”
Why all the animosity towards this girl? I believe it was because they were concerned
with me entering into a relationship just for the security of being with someone. Knowing
well the frailty of my emotions at that moment in time, they were striving to protect me.
Caleb told me matter-of-factly that he’d cut off my balls if I dated her, and Michelle said she
would be disappointed—but she would still be there for me. I consulted more advice,
particularly from Elizabeth:
“It’s a mistake! Believe me. I know. I don’t think she’s the kind of girl God has for you.
I don’t think she’s ‘the One.’”
At the time, it made me angry that they would presume to know more about my
future and about God’s plans for my life than I would, but I realize now that they were
simply looking out for me. I took their advice and told my friend, “At this point in time, I
don’t like you ‘like that.’” It hurt her, and she struggled with it for a few days, but she fared
quite well. In hindsight, I know that she was a fantastic girl, that my friends were just
saying what they were saying about her out of their concern for me entering into a
“rebound” relationship, and had we dated, I am quite confident that she would have
helped me through everything. She is that kind of compassionate woman.
I ended up working Halloween Night, covering for Trista: she went to a Halloween
Party with her floor.
Two weeks after the break-up, on our one-month anniversary, I wrote:
I still have feelings for Rebecca. I thought I was “over” her, but now I see
that I still want to be with her. This would be our one-month anniversary,
but instead it’s the two-week anniversary of our break-up. We’ve been
broken up just as long as we were together. *sigh* I really did think I was
over her; perhaps I just need to meet and fall for someone other than her,
and then all of this pain will go away? Is there better than Rebecca? No. And
it hurts to know that. It hurts to know that had God made me more
attractive, more normal, less quirky… We would still be together. I had the
ANTHONY BARNHART
best, and it was taken from me. I do not believe that there is better than
Rebecca; I know deep down that I will be crushed when she gets a
boyfriend. Did God do this? Is He doing this? Maybe—the idea is not at all
unbiblical. Maybe this is His way of saying, “Change!” St. Paul did; so can I.
If God were to say, “Do this, or don’t do this,” no matter how hard, “and I
will return her to you,” I would obey in an instant. If only it were that easy!
The nightmares continued. In these dreams, I would be with Rebecca, and someone else
would come along. Or I would be with Rebecca and everything would be fantastic, but
when I woke up, I entered into the real world where I was just a lousy ex-boyfriend who
didn’t measure up to ridiculous standards.
I keep imagining us getting married; all the agony I’ve ever suffered would
be worth it. Dammit! How come I have to be so repulsive?! Why can’t she be
attracted to me? I just want her and no one else! But, as always, what I so
deeply desire is dangled in front of me… then snatched away the moment I
begin to feel content. The scriptures tell me—or so I am told—that God
really wants me to be happy. If this is the case, then why does my life look
like this?!
One Thursday evening, Rebecca brought one of her friends down to school. I was working
in the coffee shop when they came in. They were holding hands, and her friend was
tugging her along, and Rebecca was laughing and as cheery as ever. It felt like someone
had poured battery acid into my heart. I put on a smile and acted like everything was fine.
Caleb entered and said, “I can see something’s bothering you. I can see it in your face. I can
read you like a book. What’s wrong?”
“I love her so much,” I told him, leaning over the counter, hanging my head low.
“Anthony-’’
“But I can’t be with her.” A sigh. “I wish I were a eunuch or something.”
I went home over the weekend and spent my time watching movies and just relaxing. I
didn’t feel so depressed when I was at home. It provided a surrealist escapism, in which I
found a brief trickling of joy. I would pull into the driveway and feel a wave of peace wash
over me. I had lived and breathed in this house for nearly a decade, and so many memories
were carved into the brick walls. I would sit out on the deck with Amber, smoking
cigarettes, wishing I hadn’t tossed my slate pipe into the pond when Rebecca and I were
dating. Sitting out on the deck, a CAMEL TURKISH ROYAL burning between my fingers, letting
the sweet tobacco scent run through me, I heard God’s voice—inaudible yet undeniable—
softly whispering into my heart: Everything will be okay. I am in control. I have a great plan for
your life—bigger and better than you know!
ANTHONY BARNHART
Saturday night, while online, Rebecca signed on and began flirting with me. I found it
to be unbelievable! It really rattled my cage; “Why is she doing this to me?” I lamented.
“I’m trying to get over her, but stunts like this just do not help!” She asked me if I still liked
her. I said, “I thought I was over you, but when one of my friends wanted to date me, I
realized that I was not over you.” She said, “Okay, I’m tired, I’m going to bed. Can we
continue this tomorrow?” As I went to bed, so many thoughts consumed me: “Does she
want to try again? Does she really have feelings for me? Has our time apart made her
rethink things?” I wanted to believe that she wanted to be with me, but I refused to let my
hopes accelerate. I wished Rebecca wouldn’t make it so difficult for me to move on.
Rebecca got online Sunday afternoon and told me: “You know there’s no chance of us
getting back together, right?” I told her I knew that. One of her friends then got onto her
screen name and began yelling at me: “Rebecca deserves someone who will sweep her off
her feet, who will be romantic and take care of her. That’s not you. Sorry.” And then they
both signed off. I wrote in my journal, filled with a concoction of anger and sadness:
One of Rebecca's best friends told me, "Rebecca deserves someone who will
sweep her off her feet, someone who is romantic and who will take care of
her."
I want to take care of her. I want to protect her, to cherish her, to love her. I
want to be there with her.
I am the most romantic guy you will ever meet. I am a hopeless romantic.
Truly hopeless now, as it seems.
But I did not sweep her off her feet. Why? Rebecca told me why: "I want
someone who is tall, dark, and handsome. I'm sorry, but you just don't fit
the bill."
This crushes my very spirit.
It's been three weeks... How long until this season of my life passes? How
long until God delivers me?
But how long will deliverance last? A day? A week? A month. I fear no real
deliverance will ever come.
And then:
I am a hopeless romantic. I wanted to take care of her. And why did I not
sweep her off her feet? I can answer that one: I am not tall, dark, and
handsome—what every girl wants. Right now I am more angry than
anything. Angry at Rebecca for toying with me. Angry for her friend for
ANTHONY BARNHART
being a total ignorant jackass. Angry at God for giving me the physical
appearance I have. Angry at God for apparently treating me like shit.
A NEW PERSPECTIVE
Journal entry from November 7, 2006:
A quiet revelation has come to me: I have not been fearing God. I have not
turned away from sin. He has judged me, disciplined me. I am in league
with David and Manasseh. I believe God took me from Rebecca, or took her
from me. I have lost a part of God’s intentions for my life. Yet I know God’s
grace is greater than His wrath. As I come to Him in repentance, He begins
with me anew. For David’s sin, God took his child; for my sin, God took the
one girl I’ve ever loved. When David came to God in genuine repentance,
God gave him another son—Solomon!—who was greater than the one
whom he lost; so as I come to God in repentance—genuine repentance!—He
will bring me another girlfriend, one greater than my last! Like David, I
must not dwell on the loss but focus on God. Biblical repentance is followed
by a restoration of that which was lost, plus more blessings than before.
How can God be so good? I do not know; but good He is, even to me, the
chieftain of sinners.
And on that day, one of the darkest chapters of my life truly began. Dealing with
Rebecca’s own hatred of me was hard enough, but on this day an idea cemented itself in
my mind: that God truly was the orchestrator of my pain and misery, and that only if I
became perfect in my ways of living—an impossible task!—then He would then and only
then bless me. I entered into a dark whirlpool of doubt, bitterness, and anger towards God.
My faith began to crumble. My love for God evolved into a bitter disposition. I tried to
mask up this dark inner belief with religious lace—repentance, grace, mercy, and
restitution being keywords—but the only thing that mattered to me was my despair and
hopelessness. From this point on, my relationship with God skydived without a parachute,
breaking up the turf of a wild ocean’s waves. And I would enter into a journey of self-
discovery that would lead me to a fresh perspective on the God whom I’d worshipped my
entire life. I can call this the real beginning. My battle became not one only with depression
but also with God—and everyone knows you cannot win in a wrestling match against the
Creator of the heavens and earth.
Embracing repentance came difficulty; I just could not nail it down:
I am realizing how difficult true repentance is. It is not easy. I find myself
torn between grief and hope—when hope guides me, repentance is easier.
When grief sets in, it is easy to fall into the trap of those dastard sins with
ANTHONY BARNHART
which I fight. In hope, I see the light at the end of the tunnel; in grief, I am
surrounded by a dark cloud of hopelessness, where light is only an illusion
or a mirage on the horizon—if seen at all—or is, most likely, only something
I grasp onto in the futile desire to be rid of my pain. In grief, when hope
fails me, all I have is my misery. No escape is seen. Escape is impossible. So I
return to the comfort of my familiar, old haunts, enjoying their company in
an attempt to drown out my sorrow.
My line of thinking went something like this:

“God has punished me for my sin.”
“The only way to experience happiness is to please Him with perfection.”
“But I try to be perfect and I fail. It is impossible.”
“Therefore I cannot experience happiness because I cannot be perfect.”
“God wants me to be perfect. I am failing Him.”
“Because I am failing Him, God has abandoned me.”
I eventually came to the conclusion that it was God’s desire for me to be with Rebecca. But
because of certain sins in my life, He had taken her away. I can still remember when I stood
outside in the woods behind Restoration Hall, smoking a CAMEL LIGHT and mulling through
my sentiments. I heard a quiet whisper in the back of my heart: “God did this. He planned
for you to be with Rebecca. You were supposed to be with Rebecca. But you fucked it up.
You’re a royal fuck-up. You make God sick to His stomach. He took Rebecca away from
you because she deserves someone much better. She deserves someone who will treat her
right, who will make sacrifices for her, someone who will give her all her dreams on a
silver platter without even a second thought. You are a failure. God has no use for you. He
had a plan for you—and you blew it. So now you’re stuck out on the street, cold and
shivering and alone, with no one who loves you—and no one—not even God!—who
cares.”
This conclusion came from a long conversation in my journals over a period of several
months prior to Rebecca. Over the summer one afternoon, before Sammy even became a
reality for me, I sat outside the garage and stared up at the stars, watching planes fly back
and forth. I prayed, and I believed God spoke to me:
“I have a beautiful plan for your life, Anthony,” He told me: “A life where I
fulfill the desires of your heart. I am not holding this life back from you; no,
you are! You have control over those demons which plague your life, but
you refuse to exercise that control over them. You ask how people who
don’t give a damn about Me seem to have their heart’s desires handed to
them on a golden platter. This is because My rod is not upon them. I am
your shepherd: my rod and my staff guide you. My people always focus on
the staff, but they often forget about the rod of the shepherd. I use my rod to
discipline you, to keep you from wandering into dangerous territory.
Sometimes the rod hurts, but my intentions are not to hurt you. A life single
ANTHONY BARNHART
because of sinful indulgence, while painful, is far better than you ruining a
family because of your inability to control yourself. Don’t you see, Anthony?
I am protecting you. You must—with My help—overcome the indulgences
of your sinful nature.”
I moaned, “But, God… I can’t overcome my sin!”
God told me, “You complain to Me, ‘I want to change, but I cannot.’
But I say, ‘You can!’ The Enemy deceives you, telling you that you are
unable to overcome your sinful indulgences. Have you forgotten that your
sinful nature has been crucified with My Son? It no longer has control over
you! You are in control—you have been liberated! You cry out, ‘I can’t, I can’t,’
but I return, ‘You can, you can, you can—and I will help you!’” He
continued, “Under the New Covenant, the chains that once bound you are
undone; you were a prisoner to yourself, but you’ve been freed. Anthony,
My child… It breaks My heart when you think you have no other options
but to embrace a life of resignation to your sinful nature. Here is the truth:
through the cross of My Son, you have been set outside the prison of your
own entrapment; now, you can either continue visiting the prison as a free
man (hoping that its chains will not ensnare you again!), or you can leave
that prison behind, taking an adventure into that beautiful world before
you. Anthony, it is your choice.”
Hearing those words of God, I was inspired. I cast down the indulgence to my sinful
nature—but eventually picked it back up again. I continued wrestling with it even when
Rebecca came onto the scene, and reflecting on the moment that God had spoken to me last
summer—for the entry above comes right out of my journal—I became convinced that I
had failed to do as God commanded, and I became convinced that what God had in store
for me—a life alongside Rebecca, marrying her and building a family with her—had been
snatched from my hands because of God’s rod. Thus the failure of the relationship entered
into God’s arena. It was His fault, His doing, and so I became even colder and more
calloused towards Him.
I began hearing the whispers of God everywhere I went, calling me to repentance—and to a

fresh existence. Through sermons in chapel, to prayers before classes, and even in the
random conversations with friends, God honed this into me: “Return to Me, your God. I
will keep you, bless you, and give you a life you never even dreamed of. Follow Me,
Anthony. Return to Me. My goodness, grace, mercy and favor shall shower you. Return to
Me!” But those whispers entered one ear and exited through the other. My depression
became deeper and deeper, and I found myself unable to think clearly. I stopped praying. I
stopped reading the scriptures. I stopped meditating on the Word. I slowly became
convicted that God was a sadistic, mean-spirited Creature, a divine policeman who held a
grudge against me. I was His battering ram, His play toy. He found delight in making me
suffer—and I wanted nothing to do with Him. My heart became cold and calloused. I
ANTHONY BARNHART
refused to even look in God’s direction. Bitterness and shame washed over me like a
waterfall, and I entered into a life of total resignation.
In one of my theology classes, we talked about the goodness of God and

God's favor being extended to us not on our own merit but through the
cross. Sometimes, though, when things like this happen... When life seems
to be going so downhill for me... I begin to question whether or not God's
goodness or God's favor are really extended towards me. I begin to question
the reality of grace. I begin to question, perhaps only in the subconscious,
whether or not this whole Christianity thing is a lie. I mean, I KNOW it's
not. I've tasted God's goodness, I've felt His presence, I've experienced His
touch. I know it's real. I know HE's real. Yet sometimes I feel like God is
punishing me for my sins (past, present, and future).
I think God gave me the best, let me experience it, then took it away just to
make me suffer. I feel like he's the crazy, sadistic kid with the magnifying
glass, chasing me around; I'm the ant, living my life trying to avoid His
painful blows but never really succeeding. I constantly pray for deliverance,
but any possible deliverance turns into tragedy. I grow cold and cynical
towards life; I grow cold and cynical towards God.
"God, come and help me!" And when it seems like He is finally coming...
He's not.
"God, please save me!" But He does not.
Sometimes I wish I could start this semester all over again. Not make the
mistakes I've made. Avoid things I wish I had avoided. Avoided all this
pain, this misery, this agony.
Sometimes my will to live totally vaporizes. I wish God would just

somehow take me so I could go to paradise where everything is beautiful,
wonderful, majestic. This world is just so cold and harsh. Maybe I live in a
dream-land. Maybe I have a fantasy in my head that will never come true.
Or maybe I am destined to live like this: a man of sorrows, a man of grief.
On a dreary night in late November, I sat alone in the worship ministry building, legs
dangling over a couch, a weathered Bible in my hands. I wished to crack open the minced
pages and search for a meager whisper from God; but so far I had not opened the Bible. My
eyes danced over its cover, HOLY BIBLE in faded gold lettering inscribed on the front. I set the
Bible down upon hearing footsteps. I looked up and saw one of my friends Katy
approaching. She had just finished practicing the piano for choir, had been playing for
ANTHONY BARNHART
several hours—I had heard her earlier that evening—and now she looked winded and in
need of sleep.
She paused beside the couch and asked, “What are you doing still up? It’s almost past
curfew.” Because of the college’s location among the denizens of Price Hill—the darkest
and most crime-ridden corner in all of Cincinnati, rivaled only by the infamous Over the
Rhine—a curfew of midnight was established during the weekdays. The clock hanging on
the wall, though masked in shadow, could be read: 11:53 p.m.
“I can’t sleep,” I told her. I found myself able to be honest with Katy more than I could
be honest with many people. I think it is because she is one of those people who give out
good advice and don’t color it up with fluff to make its reception easier. Her compassion
and care, not to mention her empathy—for we often found ourselves swimming the same
river—were valuable assets in our friendship.
She saw the weariness etched over my face, and so she sat down on the couch beside
me. “Why can’t you sleep?”
I drew a deep breath. It felt good to have someone to talk to. “I feel like I’m in the
middle of the ocean, trying to find some land, and I swim and swim, but no matter how
hard I swim… no land appears. It feels like I’m just staying in one place.”
She nodded. “You feel like you’re drowning, then?”
A moment of thought, then, “Yeah.”
And so our conversation began…
“Are you, may I ask,” she began, “somewhat of a control freak?”
“Sometimes, I guess,” I replied. “Is that bad?”
“Well… I’m a control freak, too.” She shifted her weight on the couch to become more
comfortable. “And the times when I feel like I’m drowning the most is when I’m gripping
the wheel of my life so tightly that I won’t let God lift me out of the quicksand I got myself
into.”
A crude smirk. “That sounds very akin to what’s going on with me. See, I had this
plan for my life [and of course, as you may suspect, I spoke of Rebecca], and it was torn
down, and now I feel like I’m drowning, like there’s no hope. I’ll never get the right job, the
right girl, won’t ever be so lucky to get married and have kids and build a family and make
something out of my life. I’m only nineteen, you know? But I still feel like my life is
slipping through my fingers, like sand through a sieve.”
She put a tender hand on my shoulder. “I understand. I’m going through the husband
thing right now, especially since my best friend who is younger than me just got married.”
“One of my best friends got married over the summer,” I said, “so I understand what
you’re saying.”
She commented, “Sometimes I think that God kind of laughs when we tell Him the
plans we have for our lives.”
Glowering, I shot back: “And that makes us wonder if He even cares.”
“Honestly, Anthony, would you want to be married right now? You couldn’t support
your wife.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Yeah, I know… I mean, Katy, I don’t want marriage right now, but I’d like to meet ‘the
One’ and begin that long process leading up to marriage. I thought I found ‘the One’ but I
was wrong, and that killed me. I guess I’m just lying bleeding on the ground.”
“Well...” she mused, “maybe she is Mrs. Right… but she isn’t Mrs. Right now. You
know?”
“No, I know she’s not the One.” Unspoken: at least not anymore. I fucked it up.
Katy said, “Okay, well, you have to understand that your vision and perception is
kind of like a horse with those blinders on. You can’t see everything that’s happening, but
God can. So, proverbially speaking, God is the jockey of your life.”
I sighed, exhaustion beginning to creep in. “I just wish I had some clarity.”
“Have you prayed for clarity?” she asked, staring me down.
I answered, “Yeah, and I’m still praying. But nothing happens. So I keep praying. But
no change. No clarity. And I am beginning to think that maybe there’s nothing to be clear
about. Maybe there is no rhythm or rhyme to life. Maybe we’re just left to decide it for
ourselves… So the only thing I can be clear about is the fact that I screwed up, I lost what I
loved, and now I can’t have it. So far as that goes, I have perfect clarity.” I said this without
hiding the sadness in my voice.
“Can I suggest something?” Before waiting for a reply, “Instead of letting yourself
become cynical, why don’t you try looking at this in a different light? Maybe God is trying
to teach you that even though you can’t see everything clearly, and you feel like you’re
walking blind, you still need to trust Him.”
How could I trust a God who had doled out nothing but pain in my life? “Let’s just
say that trusting God is a big issue for me.”
“Why do you think it’s an issue for you?” Quickly, “And I wouldn’t be ashamed about
it. I don’t know anyone who has ever had an easy time trusting God.”
“I’m afraid of where He’ll take me, I guess,” I said. “I’m afraid that if I give God the
reigns, I’ll be miserable. I’m afraid that He’ll make my life a living hell. So I keep trying to
plan my own life out. And I feel shitty for it, though I know almost everybody does the
same.”
“Come on, Anthony,” she pleaded. “You know that if you trust Him to lead you, you
won’t be miserable. I mean, I’m sure you’ll be miserable at some points. But no path is
going to take you straight into the wonderful realm of happiness. But if you do put your full
trust in God, I think you know—no, I know you know—that He will lead you to do things
and go places you never thought possible with your life.”
Perhaps I agreed with her, or perhaps I simply wanted the conversation to end. I
cannot remember too well; I only know that I confessed, “Yeah, you’re right. I do believe
what you say… Or at least, in my head—the logical part of me—I know it to be true. But
when it comes to, say, embracing this with every ounce of my being—with my ‘heart’—I
fail. It’s something entirely different than confessing something as fact.”
“It is difficult,” Katy said, speaking from experience. “It’s so hard. And I dole out all
this seemingly wise advice, but I am probably worse off than you in this department. My
worst fear is being alone. Never getting married.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“That’s mine, too,” I said. “But we’re not alone. There are so many like us who are
unwilling to admit it. I have one simple dream for my life: to be a family man. I hope God
honors that dream, but sometimes I don’t know if He will. And that thought terrifies me.”
Katy nodded, empathizing. “I feel like that a lot, too. But I honestly do not believe that
God would give me my desire to be a wife and a mother if He did not have the intentions
of fulfilling this desire. Think about that,” she said, standing. “I have to get back. I’m sorry.
I’ve already missed curfew too much.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I’ll just see you tomorrow.”
Just when I thought things had gotten as rotten as they could possibly get, things spiraled
out of control. One day as I was working in the coffee shop, one of my good friends Mark
came in. He had taken me out to eat dinner when Rebecca broke up with me, and he had
told me that it is horrible how such things as love breaking takes place. He himself had just
been trashed by a girl named Felicia; Felicia threw him a bone and then darted after his
roommate. Mark spent many days wallowing in pain, vowing never to hurt anyone like
that.
His vow meant nothing.
He found me in the coffee shop and told me, “We need to talk later.”
After clocking out of the coffee shop, I went to Mark’s room. He then told me that he
and Rebecca had been talking. I had been too caught up in my own world of pathetic
suffering that I had been blinded to them hanging out so much. He told me that they liked
each other and were going to date. He apologized and then told me to get out of his room;
Rebecca did not want him talking to me.
I stumbled to my room, shut and locked the door, then collapsed to the ground, tears
streaming from my eyes like blood from a wound. My chest shook as I muted my sobs in
my pillow. Caleb was working, so I had ample time to rid the tears before he returned. I
was able to fall asleep before he got back. In the days following, seeing Rebecca and Mark
together—going to football games, seeing movies, going to the park, going to concerts, and
spending time together in absolute happiness—tore me to pieces. I could not eat, sleep, and
at times I couldn’t breathe. I fought to merely exist—and that proved nearly impossible in
and of itself.
I finished work in the coffee shop the day after Mark’s confession, and Katy met me for
lunch. We sat down with our food in the cafeteria, and I said, “When I saw Rebecca today, I
realized that I still like her. I think I might even love her, despite all that has happened. I
still think we’re meant to be together.”
She glared at me. “Why? Why in the world do you think you’re meant to be together,
after all the pain you’ve gone through?”
“Because I would do anything to make her happy, and I want to be with her so much.
I felt like God told me, ‘This is her,’ and she fit my desires for my dream girl, and now I feel
like I wasn’t a good enough person, God took her… And it hurts like hell. It was my sin
that shattered what was meant to be, my sin that completely smothered God’s orchestrated
will for my life.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“What sin, if you don’t mind me asking? You brought it up.”

“I don’t know. Smoking, for example.”
“Okay. Smoking is bad, sure, but I wouldn’t say it’s a horrible sin. That being said, if
she was the One, and you were supposed to be with her… Then you would be. So either she
isn’t Mrs. Right, or she isn’t Mrs. Right at the moment.”
“What if God is waiting for me to totally repent, and then He’ll bring us back
together?”
“I was reading this thing that says if you ask for something, and you don’t get it,
there’s a pretty good chance you wouldn’t really want it anyway.”
“Well… I really want Rebecca. She’s the one I want to marry and have kids with.”
Jokingly, “Not you—sorry.”
“Oh, the devastation I feel in my heart is unbearable.”
“Goodness, come on, now, empathize with me. Give me some wise advice or
something.”
“I’m thinking. And I don’t give good advice, just warning you.” She poked at her food,
looked up. “If you really feel that your repentance is the only thing that is keeping you from
having her, then why in the heck have you waited to repent?”
“Because I’m so sad. And I’m not sure. Smoking helps me deal with my sorrow.”
“My goodness, you are confusing. She is the One, and God told you so Himself, and
you know that the only reason God is withholding you from her is because you refuse to
give up your sin, but you are too sad over the woman to give up your sin. Did I leave
anything out?”
“No, you pretty much nailed it on the head… Except it’s ‘I believe’ God told me so
Himself… I could be wrong.”
“My, oh my, what a vicious circle.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Well, why don’t you try the whole repenting thing? And if it doesn’t work out, then
there is a good chance she may not be the One.”
“I guess I feel like there’s no hope left, so why even try? She doesn’t want anything to
do with me. She’s with one of my friends… well, one of my former friends. It’s like there’s
no chance in hell that she’ll ever get back with me.”
“But if she is the one you’re supposed to be with, then God will work out those issues,
and turn her heart back towards you. For instance, my mom dated my dad’s brother before
she dated my dad, and it killed him. But he obviously won in the end.”
“Did she date your dad before she dated his brother?”
“Eh. Kinda. My mom’s a slut. What can I say?”
“Like mother like daughter. Isn’t that what they say?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
THE BLADE SINKS DEEPER
I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. The pain I feel is
overwhelming. It haunts me when I wake and when I sleep. Every waking
moment is filled with emotional pain that is worse than anything I've ever
experienced.
I have prayed. I have pleaded. I have cried out to God. He still has not
answered me. Life gets more and more difficult with each passing day.
"God, where are You?" I cry out in tears. I have always been taught and have
always taught that God is good to His children, but I am beginning to doubt
that. I am beginning to question those things I've always held so dear. All
these trials have brought me to my knees and are making me acknowledge
things I never would have acknowledged otherwise.
The girl of my dream despises me. One of my best friends has betrayed me.
I pray for contentment and happiness but it is ever-so-fleeting. My life is a
mess. I just want it to end. I am not suicidal, yet I pray that God will either
change my life so that I can smile and mean it... or take my life so that I can
be with Him and the saints in eternal paradise, where all this suffering is no
more.
I am losing faith in God's character and nature. "Does He really care about
me? Does He really love me?" My biblical knowledge says, "Yes," but my
life's experiences say "No." I am losing faith in His goodness. I want to
believe that He is good, I want to believe that there is hope, but when He
dangles my dreams in front of me and then snatches them away, then adds
even more pain into the mix... How can I believe in His goodness? How can
I embrace hope?
I am growing bitter and cold. This suffering is turning me into a frost-bitten

skeleton. I'm becoming apathetic towards all I used to hold dear. "Why
should I stick with God when He just smites me over and over?"
All of this is swarming me in an instant, crushing me under waves of chaos

and confusion.
One day in the coffee shop, I stood in the back wearing oven mitts and placing frozen
cookies in the oven. Trista came back to clock in for her shift. As she took off her jacket and
picked up her timecard, she said, “I’m going to give Mark a piece of my mind if he and
Rebecca date.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
I winced. I didn’t want to think about it. “I’d appreciate it.”

She kept talking, punching her card: “She’s treating Mark just how she treated you.
She even admitted that Mark wasn’t her kind of guy! If they date, it’s probably because she
likes and wants more of the attention that he gives her.”
Peculiar. I turned towards her, shutting the oven door. “She told me one reason she
dated me was because she liked the attention that I gave her.”
“Exactly,” Trista said. “Girls make the same dating mistakes over and over again.
Mark will just get hurt. What happened to you will happen to him, and then she’ll have a
bad reputation all over campus for being a player.” She shook her head. “Mark is walking
straight into heartbreak.”
That made a crooked smile spread over my face.
The pain of knowing Mark was pursuing Rebecca tore me apart. I entered his room and sat
down on his roommate’s bed. We talked for about fifteen minutes. I confessed what was
happening to me, and he promised to “back off” of Rebecca until I moved on. That was
laughable. The next day he and Rebecca “hit the town” for five hours. So I became upset
with both him and Rebecca—really upset. Part of me hoped he would get hurt so he’d know
the hell he was putting me through.
Caleb and I went to SKYLINE CHILI. I told Caleb some news on the developing “Mark and
Rebecca” situation: “Trista confronted Mark to his face in the cafeteria, asked how he could
keep hurting me like this. He looked straight into her eyes and told her, ‘I don’t care.’”
Caleb shook his head, took a sip of his Mountain Dew. “Mark is being an idiot. He’s so
low. Thank God we’re not like that.”
“He knows the pain he’s inflicting on me has driven me has torn me apart!” I
exclaimed in a harsh whisper. “He still doesn’t care. How much more of a low-life bastard
can you be?”
“If it’s any consolation,” Caleb said, “he’s going to get hurt. He’ll know firsthand the
hell he’s putting you through.”
“As bad as this sounds, I hope he gets hurt. And I’ll show no sympathy.”
News spread quickly around my league of friends. One of my friends and supervisors at
the coffee shop told me one day, “Someone told me that Mark doesn’t care at all about what
you’re going through because of him.”
“Yeah, that sums it up pretty well,” I muttered.
“You can see the guilt in his eyes.”
“Part of me hopes he gets hurt so he’ll know what I’m going through.”
A customer came to the bar. Our conversation ended.
My journal entry from a few days later, written in the coffee shop:
ANTHONY BARNHART
Life has been a nightmare.
It hurts me so much to see her so happy. She knows how much she has hurt
me, how much she continues to hurt me, and she doesn't even care. She
keeps doing things that will hurt me with no care in the world. She treats
me like crap and gets angry at me for things I cannot control.
Last night I crept out of the dorms at 1:00 a.m. and snuck into the woods. I
sat down under the stars and the barren trees, and I just cried out to God.
"Why are you doing this to me?! How come the pain never leaves?! I feel
like you've targeted me and are just hitting me over and over! You told me
to change, and I changed. But the suffering becomes harsher and harsher. Is
there any hope? Will you ever come and make me content with my life?
Will my dreams ever come to fruition? Why do you give me such dreams,
then shatter them and break them in front of me, all the while professing
how much you love me? I'm sorry, but it doesn't seem to add up. I'm living
in an eternal torment, and no matter what I do or how much I pray, you
apparently fail to show up. How long are you going to make me wait? How
long are you going to make me bathe in this agony? How long until your
face will shine upon me? I am falling apart, breaking apart... And you're
nowhere to be seen."
As I wrote this, I just saw her and Mark together. It makes me sick to my
stomach.
I told Rebecca when we began dating, "I believe this is the beginning of
something beautiful. I'm excited." She exclaimed, "Me, too! I'm excited! You
make me smile! I like you and I feel like I always will!" These were all lies.
The agony consumes me. She's turned my life into a living hell, and God
seems to not care. I know He does, but I just want to experience it.
Every winter, the school had a special event where you could receive free tickets. It was
called “The Festival of Lights.” When Rebecca and I had dated, she had talked about
wanting to go to the Festival of Lights with me. The Cincinnati Zoo would be decorated
with millions of Christmas lights, there would be men in animal costumes, and you could
watch the rhinos and the penguins and the monkeys under freshly-fallen snow. I figured
Rebecca would go with some of her friends. A week before the event, Mark approached me.
He told me, “Rebecca and I are going to the Festival of Lights together. It’s going to be a
date.” My face absolutely fell, and before he turned to go, he said, “And I really don’t give a
damn about how much it hurts you.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
A SHAMEFUL RESOLUTION
On a cold and windy day, when a stiff rain kept me indoors, I wrote in my journal:
I thought about killing myself today. At the time, it seemed like the best
option. It seemed like the only way to escape the pain, the agony, the
suffering. I feel alone, abandoned, betrayed. Everything is dark, gloomy,
sinister. There is no laughter, peace, nor joy. There is no happiness. I feel
totally hopeless. I confided in several close friends about this: Elizabeth,
Michelle, and Caleb. I will talk with Brian on Friday. They are all worried
and very concerned. I just don’t want to live anymore… But I have to
endure.
The next day, I wrote:
As I write this, I find myself unwilling to live any longer. I feel so hopeless,
like life will never get better. I want to know joy, peace, happiness, and
contentment… but it eludes me. Suicidal thoughts have swarmed me all
day. I took a walk down the dark streets of Price Hill, halfway hoping that
I’d be shot in an off-the-wall drive-by shooting. Why am I like this? Why is
my life like this? I look around and see so many people who are happy,
joyful, content. I want to be like them. I want to be normal. I don’t want to
be plagued with this depression. I don’t want to live a life where all the
faintest trickles of joy are taken from me. I don’t want this anymore. My life
is headed nowhere—only into darker and deeper crevices where light never
shines and where a cold wind blows. It makes me want to cry. No. It makes
me want to die—and part of me thirsts so much to slit my wrists and bleed
out into a shadowy existence where there is no pain.
I began really toying the idea of suicide. As I would sit in my classes, my thoughts would
wander to the “how” of it all. I had three main ideas if I ever decided to take my own life:
overdose on pills, take the cutting knife from the coffee shop and slit my wrists (being sure
to cut them vertical and not horizontal, as is necessary to die of blood loss), or make my
way to the PURPLE PEOPLE BRIDGE (where Rebecca and I had spent significant time, ironically)
and throw myself into the placid and grime-ridden Ohio River waters below—the impact
from such a height would be akin to landing on concrete (and I would be smart enough to
plunge head-first).
During my multi-cultural literature class, I wrote a poem for an assignment. When I turned
the poem in, the teacher told me how wonderful a poet I am. I smiled and thanked her. She
didn’t realize that this was my own way of screaming out for help, screaming out for the
ANTHONY BARNHART
world to see just what I was going through. The poem, entitled INFRACTUS FATUM [Latin for
“Broken Destiny”] can be found at the beginning of my story. It entailed everything that
was going on, especially losing Rebecca and seeing her with Mark.
The depression didn’t leave me in my sleep. I continued to dream of Rebecca all night long.
I would see her being married to Mark, and I would be the best man. And then I would go
home and sit outside, smoking a cigarette and drinking my sorrows away, knowing that
they were just beginning their new lives together. Ugh! The pain! I can’t write to you of
how unbearable it was. Pen and paper, type and ink, none of it can adequately describe the
emotional torment and spiritual hell that I went through in those days. I hated it. I wanted
it to end. I wanted to move on and be done with it—but with each passing day, the pain
became more and more intense. I told all my friends that I was fine, but I was not. I wanted
them to believe that. I wanted them to think that I was okay. I had enough to worry about
without them breathing down my necks. I didn’t like who I was, what I looked like, and I
didn’t like the very life I lived. I wanted it all to change, and I feared it never would.
My sister and her boyfriend Luke broke up, but then they got back together. She never
told me. I found out about it through my friend Chris, and I asked her, “Why didn’t you tell
me you two were back together?”
Her face flushed red. “I didn’t want you to be sad because you and Rebecca didn’t get
back together.”
I hugged her and said, “Well, I’m happy for you. At least your prayers are being
answered.”
These words were inscribed into my journal:
For the last two years, I have lived in agony and sorrow. Two months ago, I
felt content, at peace, happy. For the last month and a half, I have bathed in
heartache, heartbreak, and depression. "You've changed," my friends tell
me. Yes, I have. I am a shell of the person I once was, a skeleton of a past
existence. All my days are dark, gloomy, and hopeless. I no longer smile. I
no longer laugh. I no longer taste joy. I do not enjoy life.
I just want things to change. I want my life to be different. I feel abandoned

by God, utterly alone. I feel like He's turned His back on me. Why should I
pray? Does He listen? Does He even care? I find myself hesitant to thank
God for anything--anything at all--because I am so afraid He will brutally
take it away from me.
Is there any hope for me? Is there any light on the horizon? I used to think
so, but now my faith has dissolved into doubt. My life is dark, murky, full of
shadows and broken dreams. I pray that God will somehow take my life if
there is nothing more for me than this empty, painful, mournful existence I
lead. I believe the best season of my life has passed; everything goes
downhill from here. Why should I live any longer in this tomb of suffering
ANTHONY BARNHART
and pain? Why should I fear death? Its very name--"death"--is sweet to my
ears. It brings hope, not gloom. It is a gift, not a tragedy.
Elizabeth continued to have trouble dealing with her and Kyle’s breakup. We went to C.V.S.
one day, and as we walked through the aisles, Elizabeth burst into tears: “I wish it were just
plain and simple! Relationships. You love somebody, they love you. You get married and
have a life together. Love sucks. I just want all of this pain and confusion to end!”
I empathized with her and said, “One day we will both be married with kids, and all
this suffering will be forgotten.” Did I really believe that?
Elizabeth drew a deep breath. “I can’t wait, Anthony. God does have a plan.”
I was beginning to think otherwise. I doubted His goodness. I doubted His favor. I
doubted His love extended towards me—and I began to doubt His character. Everyone
always said God was loving and grace-filled, but my life seemingly denied this. I began to
struggle with my identity of God, and though I didn’t ever question God’s existence, my
perspective on His character and nature transformed to the point that I had no desire to be
affiliated with Him. I resigned from teaching at church, and I felt between a rock and a
hard place in my studies: majoring in Biblical Studies yet, in my heart, disbelieving
everything they taught me.
Much to my surprise, Rebecca called me one day just as the semester began to end. We
chatted for a little bit, and I confessed, “I really liked you, more than you’ll ever know.”
In tears, she said, “I am so sorry! It hurts me to know that I hurt you so badly.”
I asked her what she meant when she told me that she wanted to be with me forever.
“I meant I wanted to be with you forever as friends.”
“Rebecca.” I drew a deep breath. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Rebecca. You don’t say something like that to a boyfriend and mean ‘as friends.’”
A pause. Quietly, “I’m sorry. I meant it in that I really thought I liked you a lot. I lied
because I didn’t want to hurt you. I felt so bad when I realized I did not like you. Please
forgive me.”
A knot formed in my throat. “I forgive you,” I said, clenching my fist.
After a moment, “Are you mad?”
“No,” I said. “I knew you were lying. But you’ve been honest with me now.
Everything’s okay.” Then, “It’s been a crazy past few months, eh?”
“Yeah it has. I just want things to go back to normal.”
“Normal sounds appetizing,” I said.
Elizabeth and I talked about the conversation. She said, “Rebecca really does feel bad for
hurting you, Anthony. Don’t think that she’s some Nazi war criminal who delighted in
giving you pain. When she came in that night, she was bawling. She wept all night long
because of the pain she caused you. She told me it was the hardest thing she’s ever done.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
I called Rebecca once more: “Is there anything I did—honestly—that caused you to
not like me anymore?” And I gritted my teeth, waiting for the response.
“No,” she said. “You were a great boyfriend. Even when I broke up with you, you
were great. You could have been a really big jerk, but you were not. I am glad we can still
be friends. You were really mature about everything, and I am thankful for that. Most guys
would have been a jerk, but you were not.”
I confessed, “I carry a lot of guilt over what happened. I feel like I messed up, did
something wrong, and ruined everything.”
“Why do you feel guilty?” Rebecca asked. “It’s not your fault. Remember: God has a
plan for us, but it’s not for us to be together. So stop feeling bad about it, okay? It’s not your
fault. I promise. You were great.”
“I just… I still can’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t good enough.”
“It had nothing to do with you. It was all me.”
“What do you think of me?” I asked. “As a person?”
She didn’t answer at first, shocked at the random question. Then, “Honestly?”
“Yes. Please.”
“You’re great. You have such a love for the underprivileged. And such a heart for
justice. And as a boyfriend, you were great. I just realized you weren’t the one for me, and I
had to end it.”
Next week I wrote in my journal:
“Whatever happened to my friendship with Mark?” you ask. Easy: I could

not stand to bear his presence, to even see his face—for I could feel the cold
blade of betrayal twisting through my heart, an ache physical as well as
emotional. Our friendship ended. He tried to speak with me, but I pushed
him away. I didn’t care. He had betrayed me. I was the one given the boot: I
was just carrying his decision to the next level. If he was going to do to me
exactly what his roommate did to him, then by God I would not give him
the time of day—especially since he vowed never to hurt anyone in such a
way. He knew how much I hurt. He knew the pain he caused me; he’d been
through it himself! But his own selfish desires overruled any compassion
and mercy, and for that he lost the privilege of being my friend. And that
has never changed—and it never will.
After a long conversation with Caleb, I decided that one of the most hopeful remedies for
overcoming my “addiction” to Rebecca was to end our friendship. We had continued
hanging out every now and then, and talking to each other daily, since the break-up, and
this only fueled the inability of my wounds to heal. She sent me a message over the internet
telling me how upset she was about how I was so persistent on the phone the weekend
prior. I responded to her message:
ANTHONY BARNHART
I understand why you are angry: this is not what you want, this isn’t how
you want us relating to one another. You want friendship and friendship
alone. I understand why you are frustrated: you want me to be over you,
but it seems like I never will be. I know why you are sad: you don’t want me
to hinder your life in the ways that I am.
For some reason, I lived in ignorance of the fact that I was not totally over
you. I said I was 97% over you, but it’s more like 60% over you. I realize that
now. Please understand that I did not lie when I said I was all but over you;
lying involves conscious deception, and in this case it was an unconscious
deception. I even unconsciously deceived myself.
This is my fault. None of it is yours, so don’t think that. I told you that it
would take me some time to get over you, and it will. However, I moved
into being involved with you way before I should have been. Only a week
went by since the breakup, and we were hanging out again. That was stupid
on my part. A part of me, I think, thought that when we hung out, you
would miss our romantic moments together and wish them back, therefore
getting back with me. I now understand the reasons why you dated me, and
I understand that what I wanted to happen (and what I want, to be honest,
to still happen) will never happen. I want to be a big part of your life. That
can’t happen, though, until I am entirely over you, until the emotional
attachment has absolutely broken.
On top of all this, the bipolar cycles have not been helping. They are causing
me to deal with the breakup and my feelings for you inappropriately. You
have no idea what it’s like to be bipolar, how in the phases (especially the
depression phase), my mind becomes distorted by the chemical imbalances
and I think things, do things, and say things that I—as Anthony Barnhart—
do not really mean. I apologize if I have hurt you at all because of this. I
believe this depression has played a big role in me not getting over you.
I am sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you. This breakup has been really
difficult for me because I really liked you. From the moment I first spent
time with you, I liked you, and after our first time together at Newport, I
told Kyle and Elizabeth as much. As I got to know you more and more, my
feelings for you became more developed. While I know you said it in
confusion, your words that you wanted to be with me forever put a deep
emotional seed within me. When the breakup happened, not only did I lose
someone I really liked, but those words tore a giant hole in my heart that is
still trying to be filled. I am not telling you this to put any guilt on your
plate, but because I want you to understand the truth.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I think we need to start over from where we were one and a half months
ago, when you broke up with me. I told you I needed time for the emotional
attachment to cease, but I was foolish and did not take the necessary time. It
is a good idea that we not hang out or spend considerable time with one
another. I believe we have the potential to be good friends—even great
friends—but not right now. Because of the emotional attachment I still
experience, friendship is therefore hindered. I realize now (logically) that
we both wanted something else, so it would not have worked out. However,
my emotions need time to correspond with my logic. I know that one day I
will be over you. How long? I’m not sure. Definitely a lot more than a few
days, though, I know that. It is a good idea, I think, for to us avoid spending
time with one another and hanging out and having in-depth conversation
over AIM. However, we should still be nice and kind to one another during
this period of transition. You’re a wonderful girl, and I care about you a lot
(and I mean this sincerely, not just because I still have feelings for you). I’m
thinking that, at the least, we should avoid hanging out at least until
sometime in January, maybe even longer depending on how long that is
going with me emotionally (and whether or not you still want the
friendship to take place).
I know this came out-of-the-blue for you, and it did likewise for me. I was
up till 3:00 a.m. trying to figure things out. At first I blamed this on
depression (ask Elizabeth, I talked with her about it last night), but as I lied
in bed and tried to fall asleep, I realized that I do still like you. Certainly not
as much as I did when you broke up with me, but enough that there’s still
pain involved even when I just see you. I convinced myself consciously that
I was over you, but my subconscious comes to the surface when the
depression sinks its venomous teeth.
It will take time. I really am sorry for throwing this upon you. I don’t want
to dampen your day in any way, shape, or form. You’re a great girl and a
great person in God’s kingdom, and I really hope you accomplish your
dreams: begin a family (not with me, obviously) and become a nurse
helping people. You will be a great mother and a great nurse. You have my
best wishes.
When she received the message, she told me over AIM, “I have nothing to say.”
“Really?” I typed. “Nothing?”
“No, I’m fine.” Cold and to-the-point.
“Okay,” I responded after a moment. Then: “I just don’t want there to be any angst
between us during this period of time.”
“Okay.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Ummm… Everything is cool between us, right?”

She didn’t answer.
“Rebecca?” I typed.
“What?”
“Everything is cool between us, right?”
“I thought you said you wanted time. Why don’t we start now?”
“Okay,” I replied, disgruntled by her attitude. “But answer one more question for me,
okay?”
“Whatever.”
I drew a deep breath: “Do you still want to be friends when this is all said and done?”
Several moments passed. I twitted my fingers. The screen flashed: “I don’t know.”
Frustrated, I went to Caleb and vented, “I would have given my soul to hell for that
girl, and this is how she treats me. I am honest with her. I care for her. And she treats me
like shit.” In retrospect, I realize that I was being what you might call stalkerish over the
entire thing; she had every right to respond the way she did to my message. But pain gives
birth to confusion, and confusion gives birth to resentment. And I resented her.
Caleb sighed: “I’m sorry, Man. I don’t know what to tell you.”
I crossed my arms, scowled. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t expect anything more.”
A COLD & LONESOME NIGHT
When and where it happened, in the sense of the precise moment and precise place, I can’t
tell you. I imagine it evolved as most perspectives and beliefs do. But somewhere
throughout the months following the break-up, I abandoned God. I believed He existed,
but I did not believe that He cared for me. I did not believe that He was on my side. I saw
Him as a sadistic God who took delight in doling harm upon the Children of Men—and I
wanted nothing to do with such a god. I abandoned God—and I also abandoned my
dreams of one day being a husband and a father, a “family man.”
When I expressed the abandonment of my dreams over an internet journal, many people
asked me why I had abandoned my dreams. I returned with this post:
Dreams are such ungodly demons. I do not speak of dreams in the sense of
escapist pleasures experienced in sleep (for such are the escape routes of
this painful world of suffering); rather, I speak of those dreams we give
ourselves over to, hoping that they will come true, at times convincing
ourselves that our destinies lie in our dreams. This is a naïve illusion; now,
let me tell you why dreams are demons masquerading as angels of light.
First, our dreams for life ignore the reality of the world we live in. Life is
unfair, unpredictable, and full of countless sufferings. If you are good or
evil, it doesn’t matter: life treats us all the same. Best advice? “Fear God and
ANTHONY BARNHART
keep His commandments.” It doesn’t mean that you’ll get what you want,
though. Don’t fall for that lie.
Second, our dreams for life ignore the reality of the world that God has set
into motion. God has created a free-will universe, and our lives are guided
by the decisions we and other people make, not to mention random chance
(though God does intervene from time-to-time, just don’t bank on it). How
many people have made bad decisions and comforted themselves falsely,
“This is what God wanted for me.”? How many people have been abused
by others and said, “This is the life God wanted for me.”? How many
people have been dealt a rough hand by life and wondered, “I thought God
had good plans for me?”
Third, our dreams ignore the way God works. We may dream a dream for
ourselves, but we must be honest: this dream for ourselves comes out of our
own selfishness, greed, and indifference. If God does decide to intervene and
guide our lives, He will probably take us somewhere we didn’t expect to go
(therefore we must abandon our dreams).
Fourth, our dreams take hold of us and drain life from us. How much of my
own life has been spent in the pursuit of a dream that I now realize to be so
far away and hard to find? How much sleep have I lost over this dream?
How much precious time has been squandered “dreaming dreams”?
I don’t know. Perhaps dreams are good; perhaps they serve some hidden,
divine purpose. I don’t know. All I know is this: the more I learn, the more I
see, the more I understand, the more the dream fades, replaced with a
philosophy bordering on liberty and hopelessness. My friends, what if the
course of our lives is really, in a sense, up to us and not up to “divine fate”?
The depression became worse and worse. As Christmas Break was nearing, I happened to
be walking outside Rhine Hall when I saw Rebecca and Mark holding one another. I saw
them kiss, and I beheld the sparkle of joy over her face. My gut twisted and turned. I leapt
into my JEEP and left the campus, my feet pressing heavy upon the gas pedal. A gentle snow
began to fall as I drove down Glenway Avenue, across the Eighth Street viaduct bridge,
then turned onto the snaking highway that went across the river. I parked in the lot at
Newport, across the river, and stumbled up the steps to the PURPLE PEOPLE BRIDGE. The city’s
lights danced in the snow, which began to fall quicker. I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter,
and I walked to the middle of the bridge. The railing felt ice-cold in my hands; I gripped it
tightly and looked down at the swirling water seventy feet below. Snowflakes fell around
me, forming a vortex leading all the way down to the frigid water. I put one foot against the
railing, pulled myself up—
ANTHONY BARNHART
And slipped.
I fell backwards, landing hard on a bench; it scooted underneath me, and I toppled
onto the concrete, hands freezing in melting snow. I picked myself up, inspected my hands:
a patchwork of bruises had been created across my right palm. I stood and brushed myself
off, heart hammering. I leaned back over the railing and gazed down at the water, thinking,
I would be dead right now had I not fallen. That thought riddled me with fear, and I staggered
away from the railing, heart sprinting.
I left the bridge, my legs carrying me quickly. I ascended a flight of steps, turned a few
corners. Some little kids were caroling down by the river. I hadn’t noticed them before. I
wondered how their evening joy would be shattered by a splash and then a body floating
past. Chills up my spine. I dashed into an open door: BARNES & NOBLE bookstore. The warm
air inside washed over me, and I rode the escalator to the second floor, where I purchased a
hot coffee and sat down, staring out the window, seeing only my haggard reflection and
hopeless, downcast eyes.
My life is going nowhere—and I can’t even end it by my own hand.
ANTHONY BARNHART
CHAPTER SIX
A Dream Come True?
“I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them
together again and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new.
What is broken is broken—and I’d rather remember it as it was at its best
than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived.” (Margaret
Mitchell)
EVOLVING PERSPECTIVES
In writing the previous chapter, my hope was to reveal the emotional turmoil I went
through following the break-up with Rebecca. It would seem that I lived most of my days
during that time in my room, seeking no light, bathing in self-pity and self-loathing. This
was indeed the case! All of the journal entries I posted came straight from my own hand
during this time of evolving perspectives. The result of the suffering was a series of doubts
and angers at God that produced a debilitating perspective of and faith in the God whom I
had worshipped since the earliest days of my youth. Everything I ever believed about God
had gone through the fire of suffering and came out changed.
I became convinced that God did not care for me; if He did, why would I have been
put through so much suffering? I believed God did not want me to be happy; if He did,
why would He have stolen all my hopes and dreams? I felt convicted that God did not like
me, that He was disgusted with me; I saw God looking down on me and wanting to vomit.
If He did like me, He sure didn’t seem to act like it. I became convinced that God enjoyed
seeing me suffering, even to the point that I thought He put me through my suffering just
to bring Him some morbid pleasure. And I believed that God did have a plan, but I wasn’t
good enough, so He left me out in the dark, cold and alone, left to fight for a mere breath of
fresh air. With these perceptions (which I now understand to be false) can anyone not
understand why I would make a slow but steady run from God, embracing a life of quiet
resignation and weak hedonism?
My perception of God changed, and so did my perception of myself. I didn’t see
myself as a good person, and I would never be a good person—so why keep trying? Why
not just live to please myself in whatever way I deemed fit, if, after all, pursuing some sort
of goodness only left me guilt-ridden due to ultimate failure? What a weak creature I was!
And what weak creature could survive in such a hostile environment as Christianity? So I
quietly and secretly abandoned it—pretending at times that I was still devoted. I didn’t see
myself as a person whom people liked to be around. I annoyed people. I was obnoxious.
No bone of interest could be found in my person. All my “friends” were not my friends at
ANTHONY BARNHART
all. No one cared about me. I thought I was not and never could be physically-attractive
enough to be liked by a girl. “I am detestably ugly!” I thought. “A girl’s worst nightmare!” I
thought I was too weird for people to ever like me; I felt convinced that I creeped people
out. How could a girl love such a… freak? How could a girl even like a broken boy like me?
Why did Sammy break up with me? And Rebecca soon afterwards? Because I was a poor
human being who made people miserable. And on top of all this, I felt wholly inadequate
in every dimension: spiritually, mentally, emotionally, physically. “You’ll never be good
enough,” I told myself one day standing before the mirror. “Just accept that. It will never
change.”
When it came to Rebecca, too, my perspective transformed. Rebecca was the one I was
supposed to be with, but God didn’t let me be with her because I was too much of a failure,
I was too ugly, too inadequate. She deserved far better than me, and I knew it. God took her
from me, and I learned my lesson: no matter what I do, I will always be alone. I had
enjoyed the best, and then God had tossed me onto the rocks, where pelicans and seagulls
tore off my flesh in bleeding ribbons. I was out on my own, and God was going to do all He
could to keep me from ever experiencing my greatest dream. I believed she broke up with
me because I was a bad boyfriend. I treated her badly. Sure, I didn’t realize it at the time,
and would never do it again even for millions of dollars, and while it was stupidity that
reigned that day at North Park when I tried to get her to kiss me—tried to “force” her, you
might say—it summed up the entirety of my ability at being a boyfriend: I was a bad one.
And a bad boyfriend cannot be a good husband. And a bad husband will most certainly be
a bad father. Thus my greatest dream—to be a good husband and a good father—
vaporized. I had nothing left to long for! And what about Mark? God led Rebecca and
Mark together for the sole purpose of making me suffer. God saw how much of a failure I
was and wanted me to be consumed with as much pain as possible. I felt like the ant under
God’s magnifying glass; He was just going to burn me and feel good about it.
With all of these faulty perceptions bouncing around in my head, I was faced with
three roads: I could remain in sorrow over Rebecca, I could move on to another [though
God would be at my heels, biting at me, the entire time], or I could stick with God—even
though He despised me. I did not wish to be in sorrow any longer, nor did I have any
desire to “stick it out” with God. The moment on that bridge, when I did not throw myself
overboard, something held me back. In hindsight, I believe this was God keeping me from
giving a permanent solution to a temporary problem. At the time, however, I believed that
at that moment, when I realized that I would be dead, and so lost the nerve to carry out
with my plan, the desire to move on and be with another—to taste the sweet gin of
romance even if God opposed me—led me away from that bridge.
At that moment, I embraced a newfound identity as a human being. No longer would
I bend to the will of God. I would do that which would please myself. If God would not
grant me the desires of my heart—if He would not come through with His promises—then
how could I trust Him? Lo, I could not! So I set out on making my own dreams a reality. If I
wanted to smoke, I would smoke. If I wanted to drink, I would drink. If I wanted to try
some gateway drugs, I’d find the right people (in Cincinnati, it is not too difficult). If I
wanted to have sex, then by God I would have sex. What did I have to fear? How much
ANTHONY BARNHART
worse could it get? I felt as if God had royally pegged me in the ass, and that no matter
what I did—pursuing Him or pursuing my own selfish interests—the end-result would be
the same: God would hurt me, inflict pain upon me, and make my life miserable. In the
scheme of divinity, that was my purpose: to bring God pleasure when He woke in the
morning and when He went to bed at night.
THE DREAM RESURRECTS
The café mocha tasted sweet as it touched the lips, warm and toasty. Frost covered the wide
windows looking out over the water. Quiet music—jazz, if I remember correctly—played in
the dimly-lit corner of the store. The coffee shop baristas spoke quietly with one another.
The time, I imagine, was around 10:00; the store would close within the hour. And I would
drive back to campus and get into my bed, falling asleep before curfew, knowing that
Rebecca and Mark were probably playing cards and laughing in STUDENT LIFE. I thought
about what it would be like for them to hear that my body had been found in the Ohio
River; “He jumped,” the papers would say. “What would lead such a young youth to leap
into the water, plunging to his death?” I did not want Rebecca to hurt—sometimes I
wondered if I loved the girl, for love doesn’t have to be reciprocal—but, to be honest, the
thought of Mark being emotionally torn brought a wicked smirk to my face. I found it only
appropriate for him to suffer as he had made me suffer. Before I knew it, my coffee had
drained itself. I returned the mug to the front and began making my way towards the
escalators.
“Can I help you with something?”
The voice, tender and soft, turned me on my heels.
And she stood there. KAITLYN, her bronze nametag read. A girl whose role in my story
cannot be overlooked. The first thing to strike me were her eyes. Eyes always suck me in.
Rebecca had wonderful chocolate eyes, and so did this girl. When she smiled, dimples
formed at the corners of her lips. Dark brown hair fell around her shoulders. She was not
skinny, but not fat; she bulged in the belly, but in a seductive way. Her breasts were large,
maybe C-cup, hidden underneath a bra under her work uniform. Her skin was toned a
warm tan hue, and her dainty fingers wrapped around a set of books.
I absorbed this sight all in a moment and responded quickly, “No, thanks.”
She paused. “Are you sure?”
I mentally sighed. “What would you recommend?”
“Well, what do you like? Let’s start with that. We have a lot of books.”
“I imagine,” I muttered. “Well… I don’t know.”
She seemed amused. “You’re in a bookstore and you don’t know what books you like
to read?”
I refrained from shooting forth a sarcastic glance. “I’m just browsing.”
She nodded to the books around us. “Well, right now you’re in the HOME AND GARDEN
section.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
I glanced over a few uninteresting titles. “Oh.”

She leaned against the bookshelf. “What do you like to read?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Fiction, I guess.”
“What kind of fiction? I myself am a fan of romance and fantasy.”
“My mom loves romance,” I commented, “but it’s not quite my thing.”
She inquired, overly curious. “Not a romantic guy?”
A pause, some thought, then: “Not at the moment, no.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” she asked, chuckling.
A brief smile: “How can I be romantic when I have no one to romance?”
“Tell me about it!” she exclaimed quietly, rolling her eyes. An awkward lull in the
conversation, then: “Do you like fantasy?”
“I’ve never read fantasy, to be honest.”
“Then follow me, if you want.”
“I’ve nothing better to do,” I said.
She led me to an aisle filled with fantasy books. “These are my favorite,” she said,
picking up a certain book.
I took it from her hands, flipped through it, and looked at the cover. “There’s a badger
on the front.”
“Yeah…” she said, taking the book. “It’s about animals. And they fight.”
I held back a laugh. “Oh.”
“I know it sounds corny,” she said in her defense, “but the series is actually good.”
“There’s more than one?” I asked jokingly.
A grin splashed over her face. “Perhaps you would like to read one?”
“Not right now,” I said. “I spent my last five dollars on a mocha.”
“Then you can borrow my copy,” she said. Quickly adding, “If you want.”
“Okay… But not right now. I’m kind of in the middle of a book.”
“What?!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She playfully punched me in the
arm.
“I just now remembered,” I replied, brushing my shoulder. “I don’t get around to
reading much.”
“Well?”
“Well?” I echoed, confused.
“Well, what book is it? That you’re reading?”
“Oh. The Hobbit.”
Her eyes lit up like fireworks. “I love that book!”
“Really? I picked it up the other day. It’s good so far.”
“My favorite part is them getting captured by the goblins.”
“I haven’t read that far.”
“Then you’ve barely started.”
“Yes, but I have full intentions of finishing it.”
“Then I won’t spoil it for you. Have you read his other books?”
“Tolkien’s? Yes. Just The Lord of the Rings trilogy, though.”
She gasped. “I love those books.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Yeah,” I said, feeling quite awkward. “They’re pretty good.”

She shifted leaned against the bookshelf. “I’ve always wanted to write a book. I
started one once, but I only got halfway done with it.”
I nodded. “I know the feeling.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Yes. I write books. Nothing fancy. I’ve written a few.”
“Are they published?”
“Online. Like I said, nothing fancy.”
“That’s so amazing! Do you have any readers?”
“Quite a few, actually,” I told her.
“We should try to get some of your stuff in here.” She waved a hand towards the rows
of books surrounding us. “What kind of stuff do you write?” she asked.
“Lots. I’ve written romance, science fiction, historical fiction, horror—’’
“Wow.” She looked me over, impressed. “That’s so cool.”
“Yeah, I guess. I haven’t written anything lately, though.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve just been… under the weather, you could say.”
“Well, I hope you get to finish it,” she said. Tapping the books in her arms, “I have to
put these away, so I’ll have to go. Sorry to have looped you into a conversation.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “It was nice. I needed it.” Not a lie, either.
“Talk to you again, sometime, I hope!” she said, striding away.
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” I said.
As I left the bookstore that evening, the moon sparkled high overhead. I drew a deep
breath and walked back to the JEEP. Not once did I look back towards the bridge.
“Where have you been?” Caleb asked as I entered the dorm room.
“I went to Newport,” I said, tossing my keys on the dresser.
“What for?”
“Just to walk around and think. You know.” I inspected myself in the mirror. “Oh, and
I made a new friend.”
Caleb eyed me. “Why do I feel this is going somewhere not good?”
“She works at BARNES & NOBLE,” I said, sitting down on the bed. A yawn escaped me.
“A really pretty gal. My age, I’d guess. We talked for about five minutes. About books, of
course.”
“Of course. You were in a bookstore.”
“I don’t know, Man. She made me feel… different.”
“Right now probably isn’t the best time to get into a relationship. Hell, you’re not even
over Rebecca yet. It’ll just end up being a rebound, and because of the nature of rebounds,
it’ll collapse.”
“I never said anything about wanting to date her.”
“I know you too well,” Caleb said. “You like her.”
“I don’t like her.”
He gave me a queer eye. “Are you sure?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Am I interested? Sure. But being interested, Caleb, isn’t the same as flat-out liking
her.”
“Nonetheless, be careful.”
“You’re always telling me to be careful,” I said. “By now you should know that I don’t
particularly listen.”
“And it’s always at your own expense.”
I stood from the bed and began getting into my pajamas. “I’ve been thinking… Maybe
it would be a good idea for me to get to know her, you know? I mean, she’s a nice girl.
Interesting and such. Maybe the reason I haven’t been able to truly leave Rebecca is because
my heart remains with her. But where do I place my heart, if not in another? Maybe once I
place my heart in another, it won’t find its residence in her.”
“Poetic,” Caleb said, “but doomed to failure.”
“You’re so optimistic.”
“Anthony,” he said. “Listen. You’re just going to hurt yourself. These things take time.
I know it’s hard, it’s hard as hell. I know the hell you go through everyday. And I don’t
enjoy seeing you miserable. It kills me inside. You’re like a little brother to me. It’s just that I
know that if you go through with this, there’s a chance you’ll be hurt—and it’ll just
compound everything you’re going through right now.”
My eyes glowered in determination. “There’s always a risk, Caleb. I risk being hurt,
but if I don’t pursue what my heart tells me might be the right course of action, then I risk
losing something beautiful.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Caleb said skeptically; “How did that turn out?”
“You’ve come back? Browsing, again?” I had just entered the bookstore and was
approaching the escalator when she caught me, coming out of the corner, having been
rearranging moleskin journals on the far wall.
“No, actually,” I said, turning about-face. “I’m looking for something.”
“Well, then, I can help you.”
“That’s all right,” I wryly said. “It’s kind of… embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” Jokingly, “You looking for a sex novel or something?”
“No!” I exclaimed, my face blushing brilliant red. “No, not at all.”
“Really?” She kiddingly crossed her arms. “I’m finding difficulty believing you.”
I explained in defense of my honor, “I grabbed some COLDSTONE ice cream and felt
guilty, so I’m looking for a book that will tell me how to lose weight, get trim, feel great.”
She said with a laugh, “You sound like a walking commercial. What’s your name?”
“Anthony,” I told her.
“Good to meet you, again, Anthony. I’m Kaitlyn.”
“I know.” I pointed to her nametag.
A chuckle. “Sometimes I forget that’s even there.”
“So what would you recommend? For a weight-loss book?”
She casually looked me up-and-down. “For you? Nothing. You’ve got nothing to
lose.”
I patted my round stomach. “He’s a happy little tummy, but I could do without.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
She patted her own. “As could I. But being skinny is so over-rated.”
“I agree,” I told her.
“But, if you’re insistent on losing weight, I can find you something.”
As we rode the escalator up, I said, “Is there a ‘weight-loss for dummies’?”
“Oh, come on, it’s not that hard.” We reached the top floor and moved left, around
several aisles, until we came to an aisle with several books on health and wellness. She
pulled an orange book off the shelf and handed it to me. “Is that what you want?”
I nodded, flipping through the pages.
“Weight-loss really isn’t that hard,” she said. “I mean, eat lean meat and vegetables,
and you’ll do fine. That’s what I did.” She boasted, “Two years ago I weighed two hundred
fifty pounds.”
A look of shock fluttered over my face. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. I lost eighty pounds by just eating fruits, vegetables, and grilled fish. Some
chicken, too. Grilled. Not fried. Fried food is evil for the arteries. And I’ll bet,” she said,
tapping the book in my hands, “that this book will just tell you that.”
“Plus exercise.”
“Of course. So you can spend twenty books to attain the knowledge you already have,
or you can set this down and walk out here not an ounce less brilliant.”
I handed her the book. “Aren’t you supposed to encourage me to buy this?”
As she put the book up, “Yes, but in the end, it doesn’t matter.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “If that’s how you want to look at it…”
“It is,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Well, I can’t leave without purchasing something.”
“You like Tolkien, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I read some more of The Hobbit this afternoon.”
“Have you gotten to the goblins yet?”
“Just to the beginning,” I said.
“Well, check this out.” She took me to another aisle a few feet towards the front of the
store. She drew a blue book off the shelf, held it up in her hands. “This is actually a really
good book. It has all of Tolkien’s maps in it, for all of his stories. Makes his books a little
more easier to understand. He can be difficult sometimes. I can get it for you for half-off…
But only if you want it.”
Jokingly, “Trying to loop me into buying a book, I see.”
She began putting it back up.
“Wait,” I said, taking it from her hands. “I’ll take it.”
She smiled. “You sure?”
“Yes. It’s better than a weight-loss book.”
“Much better. But don’t worry about losing weight. You look fine.”
“Same to you,” I said.
A momentary pause. “In fact, we should get COLDSTONE sometime.” She added quickly,
“As friends, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, smiling. “That would be nice. What time do you get off work
tomorrow?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I work the morning shift, so after noon anytime.”

“How about 12:10?” I asked.
“12:10 sounds good,” she said.
I caught her gentle and seductive smile.
When I told Caleb about what had taken place in the aisles of BARNES & NOBLE, he shook his
head as a cross look came over his face. “You’re walking straight into a disaster,” he told
me.
I knew he would be slightly pessimistic, and I countered, “You don’t even know this
girl. How can you say that and expect me to take you seriously?”
“I don’t need to know the girl,” Caleb said, “because I know you.”
I turned to leave; I didn’t want to sit through another lecture.
Caleb caught me before I could go: “Why are you doing this?”
I hadn’t expected his question. Slowly turning on my heels, I asked, “Doing what?”
“Pursuing this girl,” he told me. “Why are you so eager to have another girlfriend?”
“I’m not ‘eager’ to have another girlfriend. She’s a nice, sweet girl, and-’’
“You’re not over Rebecca,” Caleb told me. “You can’t date until you’re over here.”
“You’ve never dated a girl you’re entire life, and you’re speaking like a guru.”
“It’s not experience, Anthony. It’s common sense. ‘Wisdom’, if you will.”
“Well, keep your wisdom to yourself. I prefer to learn by experience.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself, and you’re going to hurt this girl.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
Caleb sighed. “Just a week ago you wouldn’t come out of the room because you were
so depressed you weren’t with Rebecca. You were ready to slit Mark’s throat the moment
he fell asleep. And now you’re telling me that you’ve completely moved on? That Rebecca
—and Mark—don’t bother you anymore? Come on, Anthony. Have a little more smarts
than that. This girl is a shield, keeping you from dealing with your pain. You’re going after
her because you think that being with her will take away your pain. But… It doesn’t work
that way, Man.”
“This isn’t a rebound,” I told him plainly.
“Then this is the quickest damn recovery from emotional trauma that I’ve ever seen.
And, pardon me, but for someone who has countless mental disorders-’’
My eyes burned: “Shut the hell up.”
Caleb opened his arms in surrender. “I just don’t want to see you hurt again.”
“I’m not going to get hurt.” I turned and opened the door.
Caleb demanded, “Where are you going now?”
“Michelle and I are doing homework together,” I told him. “Is that okay?” I asked
sarcastically.
Caleb didn’t answer, turned back around to his glowing computer screen.
I shut the door and left him alone.
Oh! how I wish I would have heeded his words.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I am not sure if what we had that evening at COLDSTONE was a date, per se, but nonetheless it
was quite enjoyable. I didn’t deck out in my nicest clothes; in fact, all I wore was a pair of
jeans and a plaid shirt. I was thankful I didn’t dress up, because she came in her work
clothes. We met in front of the bookstore, and after exchanging a few words and some
awkward small-talk (I am sure my nervousness burned like a sinking ship’s flare), we
walked across the street to the ice cream parlor. She insisted on buying her own way, so I let
her. She purchased a chocolate ice cream concoction whilst I went with my favorite: the
“coffee lover’s only”: coffee ice cream with toffee, almonds, and some Swiss candy bars. We
went inside the Newport Mall and sat on plastic benches, eating our ice cream with plastic
spoons. We talked about a lot, but what stands out to me now was a certain conversation as
we scooped the last bits of ice cream from the bottom of the Styrofoam containers.
Somehow we had began talking about spiritual things; she told me she was an
agnostic, had graduated from the University of Cincinnati a year early, and since she had
been a prodigal child, she found herself living in the “real world” at the age of 22. “I’m not
ready to go into professional counseling,” she told me, “so I’m just working here full-time
and saving up money to possibly start my own hair salon. I’m not a professional
hairdresser by any means, but I have a talent at it. And I really enjoy it. It’s going to take me
a while, but I’m determined to see it through.”
I told her, “If it’s your dream, embrace it. Don’t become cynical.” Strange words for
me, for I had only recently given my dreams the finger and thrown them into the trashcan.
“What are your dreams?” she asked me, licking chocolate from her lips.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Right now I’m going to school at Cincinnati Bible College.
I’ll be a Junior next year, and to be honest, I have no idea of what I want to do with my life.”
“You’re a Christian, then?”
A momentous pause, then: “No, I don’t think so. I used to be.” It frightened me, how
easily those words rolled off my tongue, but at the same time it felt oddly liberating. I had
broken free of the mask I wore before all my friends, and finally I felt open, free.
She laughed. “Then what are you doing going to a Christian school?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I was a Christian when I started school there, but
then… I don’t know… Some of my views changed.”
“Why?” she inquired. “I mean, why did your views change?”
“Lots of things. I began to question whether or not God cared for me.”
“So it wasn’t like you were questioning the existence of God.”
“No, not at all. I was just questioning everything I’d ever been taught.”
“And what conclusion did you come to?”
“That God is generally uninterested in us,” I said. “He doesn’t care.”
“So you’re a deist.”
“I guess, yeah.”
“I used to be Methodist, but it was always ‘do this’ or ‘don’t do that’, and that grew
really old, really quick. I wasn’t allowed to live for myself. I became sick of it. So I left the
church. I go to church on Easter and Christmas, just like everyone else… Not to the church
I left, though, because they don’t really like me coming in there.”
“That’s horrible,” I said. “I mean, it’s horrible that they don’t want you.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Well, I did become the ‘black sheep’ of the congregation,” she said, smirking.
“Regardless, the church should open their arms to everyone.”
“You seem pretty optimistic regarding church. Strange, for an agnostic.”
“I just think things should be different. If you profess in a God who cares for people,
then you sure as hell should care for people, too.”
She smiled. “I like what you’re saying. But keep hoping. It’ll never happen.”
I sighed. “I know. But, hell, I don’t need to worry about it. I’m out of that.”
“Not yet,” she said. “You are going to a Christian school.”
“And that’s because I have nothing better to do.”
“I THINK I’VE FOUND MY NEW ADDICTION…”
The month of December 2006 neared its end. I had only one more week of school before
Winter Break began, a month-long release from the confines of college. While at school I
spent my time studying for exams, and every evening I would head across the river to
Newport to see Kaitlyn. When she would get off work, we would walk around the Mall, or
go down by the river, or sit on the wooden benches on the PURPLE PEOPLE BRIDGE, fighting off
the cold that rose up over the river below. Rebecca became a mere memory. She and Mark
didn’t bother me anymore. She didn’t really pass over my mind, to be honest. All I knew
was Kaitlyn, and she was all I desired to know. Maybe my affection for her was propelled
by my own desire to be rid of Rebecca and all the hell I had gone through; maybe Kaitlyn
was a rebound. But at the same time, I can’t attribute the deep feelings I had for her to some
outside force. I really did like the girl. I didn’t pursue her just to be with a girl; no, I pursued
her because not only was she attractive, but she was interesting and sweet and caring. She
didn’t throw up a front. She lived life how she wanted and did not apologize for it. I found
this fascinating and alluring.
Our relationship evolved. I can’t really tell you when we were officially
“boyfriend/girlfriend.” All I know was that we kissed before we ever reached that
benchmark. I can remember it so well: we were sitting on the PEOPLE PURPLE BRIDGE one late
afternoon, watching barges loaded with orange and yellow and red and green crates
pushing up and down the murky and muddy Ohio. We sat close to one another on the
bench. I slowly wrapped my arm around her shoulder, hoping she wouldn’t mind, and she
laid her dainty hand across my knee. We leaned our heads against one another and felt a
stale breeze coming up off the rippling water. Our hearts pounded as we turned our heads
and kissed. She initiated the action, and I followed through. Our lips touched—such a
sweet sensation!—and our tongues danced. My hand ran up and stroked her hair, and I felt
her warm breath tingling my neck as we embraced. That moment I remember so well.
Earlier that morning, she had confessed, “I’ve kissed so many boys… And the kisses
used to mean something to me. But then they just became mere ritual. I want to know what
it feels like to kiss… I mean, to really kiss.”
Upon that bridge, I asked, “Did that kiss mean something to you?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Her eyes sparkled. I glimpsed a tear. “Yes.” She hugged me tightly. “Yes, it did.”
One afternoon I bought a southwestern chicken wrap in the campus coffee shop and sat
down beside a large window overlooking Cincinnati. As I opened the wrap and began to
spread mayonnaise on top, a figure emerged and sat down beside me. A smile crossed my
face: “Elizabeth! Long time, no talk!”
“How you been doing?” she asked. “I saw you in here and decided to say hey.”
“Well, thank you. Life’s been going well.”
“Really?” she asked, stunned. “Life is going well?”
I laughed. “I know! It’s shocking, isn’t it?”
Mark and Rebecca walked by the window, hand-in-hand.
“See that?” I asked her once they passed. “That doesn’t bother me anymore.”
“Why?” she asked. “I mean, that’s a good thing, I was just-’’
“I met someone,” I interrupted her.
She looked flabbergasted. “A girl?” she said, after a moment.
“Let’s hope so!” I exclaimed. “Yes, a girl. I’m not gay.”
“I meant… Never mind… Does she go here?”
“No, she graduated early from U.C. She works in Newport.”
“And you met her how?”
“She works at BARNES & NOBLE, I went in for a coffee, we talked, and we’ve been dating
ever since. For about two weeks now. We mostly do stuff around Newport. You know, walk
the bridge, browse the shops, get ice cream from COLDSTONE. She is inviting me over to her
place tomorrow, and she wants to come here and meet my friends. I’ve told her about both
you and Caleb, how you’ve been so fiercely loyal to me.”
“What’s her name?” Elizabeth inquired.
“Kaitlyn. She’s really a wonderful girl. I like her so freaking much.”
She grinned. “Well, I’m happy for you! You deserve a good girl.”
“And I’ve found her,” I said. “I finally found her. And it feels amazing.”
The sun just began to set to the west, casting shadows across Cincinnati’s skyscrapers and
sending ribbons of rippling light across the river. I drove my JEEP over the bridge into
Covington, following hand-written directions to an apartment complex thrust against a
hillside overlooking the Cincinnati skyline. I parked in a VISITOR parking spot and entered
the complex. I ascended the stairs to her room—C317—and knocked. A moment later the
door opened, and I was greeted with a wide smile and a bear hug. She stepped back and
swung open the door, stepping out of the way; “Come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“And what will we be dining on tonight?” I asked, taking off my jacket.
She took my jacket and threw it on a coat-hanger. “Fettuccini.”
“Italian,” I breathed as I looked around the room. “Wonderful.” A single small
television screen was pressed against the far wall, and in front of it was a loveseat and two
cheap wooden chairs. The entryway opened into the dining area, where a table was set for
two, including golden flowers and burning, mellow candles. The dining hall led to a small
patio out on the deck, and it also led to the miniscule kitchen with few appliances and
ANTHONY BARNHART
cupboards full of cheap eats. Splashed across the wall of the entryway were countless
paintings; I stepped closer and examined them.
Kaitlyn hovered behind me. “Do you like them?”
“They’re awesome,” I said under my breath. “What medium?”
“It varies,” she said. “Some watercolor. Others just paint. Even pastels. This one over
here…” She walked over to a framed piece of art hanging over the black television screen.
“This is a chalk painting I made when I went to Florida.” She began explaining to me the
detail and time she had put into it, tracing out the different tan colors used for the sand,
and how she did the twin palm trees facing the water; “The hardest part was drawing the
setting sun sticking out from the horizon, especially when I had to throw the rays of the sun
over the water.” She smiled. “But I messed up. Can you see where I messed up? I didn’t
even realize it until someone pointed it out.” I shook my head. “Look at the shadows from
the palms. Their facing the sun.” She laughed. “Oh well.”
I squeezed her hand. “It’s still really good.”
“And dinner will be good, too. I need to check on the chicken.”
“Where’s your restroom?”
“Down the hall, to the right.”
I walked down the hall and entered the first doorway: a spare bedroom. A single
dresser held a small mirror, and the bed opposed a window looking out over the back of
the apartment complex. An extremely simple, unfurnished room. I stepped back into the
hall and took the next right, found the bathroom, relieved myself, and joined Kaitlyn in the
kitchen: “Can I help?”
“I’ve got it,” she said. “I’m low on food. Waiting for the next paycheck.”
“If you ever need help with money or anything-’’
“No, I can handle myself.” She nodded towards the table. “Have a seat.”
I sat down. She served the food. We ate as the sun finally subjected to the rising of the
moon. Afterwards I helped her clean up, and then we sat on the loveseat and cuddled,
watching LAW & ORDER reruns. We breathed heavily as we kissed, gripping onto one
another and tasting one another, completely oblivious to the television screen. I ended up
on top of her, her legs wrapped around my waist, and I kissed her neck. She groped at my
back, gasping. We laid back on the couch and held one another for quite some time.
Kaitlyn became sleepy: “What a night.”
I kissed her on the cheek. “I should be going.”
“I don’t want you to go,” she said, sucking one of my fingers. “I want you to stay.”
“I want to stay, too,” I told her. “But I have an exam tomorrow.”
She sighed. “Kiss me once more, will you?”
I smiled. We closed our eyes. Our hearts embraced.
I pulled away and stood. “I had a great time today.”
She extended a hand. I pulled her up. We held one another.
“Do you have to go? You can spend the night here, get back to school early.”
“Caleb would be worried sick about me,” I said. “Besides, I need sleep. And so do
you: you work the morning shift tomorrow.”
She rubbed tired eyes. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Of course.” I kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, my princess.”
When it came to Kaitlyn, I was very certain not to thank God for her. I felt that if I thanked
God for her, He would take it away. I clung to Kaitlyn just as a starved child clutches a
package of NABISCO cookies. As far as I was concerned, God had abandoned me; so I had
abandoned Him. And life never felt better. I knew He wanted me to follow Him, but I had
been hurt so much, so perhaps my refusing to return to Him was giving Him a taste of His
own medicine. Horrible, I know. This just goes to show the spiritual state in which I bathed.
Every now and again I would pick up my Bible, my heart drawn to it… But I would set it
down again.
Kaitlyn and I did everything together. All that week I went over to her house each day. We
would cook dinner together, or go out to eat—the ANCHOR GRILL was just down the road
from her house, and we would go and smoke there while eating delicious hamburgers and
French fries. We would always watch LAW & ORDER; she loved that show. Well, to be honest,
we didn’t really “watch” it. Most of our time was spent making out to the tune of LAW &
ORDER’S heavy drums when switching scenes. I told Amber about her, and I told her about
all we ever did together.
“I’m so glad you’re happy again!” she told me over the phone.
“I know. She’s a wonderful girl. I can’t wait until you meet her.”
“When will I get to meet her?”
“I don’t know. Soon, though. She wants to meet you.”
“You tell her about me?”
“Of course, Ams,” I said, chuckling.
A pause. “Do you love her?”
“What? Ams. I’m just now getting to know her.”
“Do you think you could love her?”
“I thought I loved Rebecca. We saw where that went.”
“Not everything is a happy ending, Anthony. And not everything is a sad one, either.
Don’t forget that, okay?”
One night I spent the night at Kaitlyn’s house, sleeping in the guest bedroom. I went out
onto the patio and lit up a CAMEL LIGHT. I pulled out my phone, searched through my
contacts, found Caleb’s number, called. The phone rang a few times. I took a drag as Caleb
answered.
“Where are you?” Caleb asked. “It’s almost curfew.”
“I know. I can’t take another miss of curfew or they’ll charge me.”
“So you’re coming back, then?”
The smoke tasted delicious in my mouth. “I’m staying at Kaitlyn’s.”
An awkward silence. “Are you there now?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Kaitlyn?”
“I don’t know. In the living room, I think. Watching television.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“I’m not going to sleep with her,” I told him. “I’m not that stupid.”
“Anthony. We both know how horny you are. Why don’t you just-’’
“I can’t miss curfew again.”
“Where will you sleep? The couch?”
“I called to let you know that I wouldn’t be back, not to get a lecture…” Then, “She
has a spare bedroom. A guest bedroom.”
“She lives in the apartment alone?”
“Caleb. Jeez. Calm down.” I was getting agitated. The cigarette smoldered.
“Why don’t you go to Brian’s?”
“That’s an hour out of the way.”
“Half an hour.”
“I’m content here. I’ll be back in the morning. I have an exam.”
“Anth-’’ he protested, but I hung up the phone.
I went back into the apartment. She huddled under a warm Mexican falsa blanket,
curled into a fetal position. She smiled as I approached, cooed, “There’s room under here
for two.” She lifted the edge of the blanket as I slipped in. She leaned against me: “What
did your roommate have to say?”
“Nothing much,” I lied. “I just assured him I wouldn’t miss my exam.”
Elizabeth caught me coming out of class the next day. She effortlessly pinned me against a
wall. “What’s this I hear about you spending the night at Kaitlyn’s apartment last night? By
yourself?”
I shrugged her off. “It’s not a big deal-’’
“Anthony! It is a big deal!”
“Elysa spends the night at Nate’s apartment all the time, and-’’
“Whoa,” she said. “It’s not the same.”
“Why isn’t it the same?” I demanded.
“How about the fact that you’ve only known this girl for, what, two weeks? How long
have Nate and Elysa been dating? Three years now?”
I pushed Elizabeth away. “Nothing happened, okay?”
“Maybe not this time,” she called out after me, “but eventually, it’s going to get out-of-
hand.”
I spun around on my heels. “Elizabeth. What makes you think I’ll do that?”
“I know you. You’re not in the emotional state needed for a relationship.”
My eyes glowered. “Oh, has Caleb gotten to you?”
She crossed her arms. “No, actually. He told me about last night. But I have common
sense that I don’t borrow from other people.”
“I’m fine, okay? I’ve never been better.”
“You’re just fooling yourself.”
“Why can’t you guys just be happy for me?” I exclaimed. “You are constantly on this
girl’s case, and you think she’s the scum of Satan, and you’ve never even met her. And you
want me to just accept what you say, to embrace it? It’s not going to happen. Because for
ANTHONY BARNHART
once in my life, Elizabeth, I’m happy. I can smile and mean it. I can love and be loved. Do I
love Kaitlyn? Hell, I don’t know. All I know is that she makes all the pain go away. She’s
amazing. She makes me feel… she makes me feel like the world can be a good place. I’m
not thinking about slitting my wrists anymore. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“I’m happy, Elizabeth. Okay? Please just be happy for me?”
She spoke: “I want to, Anthony. I really do.”
“Then why can’t you just be happy for me, then?”
“Because… My gut just tells me this is wrong.”
“Elizabeth-’’
“I don’t want you getting hurt, okay?” she pleaded. “That’s all. I don’t want to see you
go through all that pain again. I want you to be happy. You know that. Caleb wants you to
be happy, even though sometimes he comes off a little… what’s the word… pharisaical?
Yes. But, look: I hope and I pray that things go well with you and Kaitlyn. I pray that you’ll
be happy. Because you’ve been through hell, and you deserve a good girl. You really do.
Don’t think about Mark and Rebecca. You deserve better than Rebecca.”
I eyed her. “You mean that?”
“Yes,” she said. “You deserve someone who will love you unconditionally and be
there for you no matter what. Rebecca couldn’t be there for you unconditionally. Not
because she’s a bad person—I love Rebecca, she’s one of my best friends—but because she
isn’t the right one for you.”
“Well, don’t worry. Mark and Rebecca don’t bother me anymore. Rebecca is a thing of
the past.”
Mom and Dad were anxious for me to return home for Winter Break; they relished the
thought of spending more time with me. When I was off at college, I only saw them when I
came home for the weekend, and much of the time both my parents were busy—Mom
running around with her friends, and Dad running races all throughout Ohio. They
constantly hounded me to get a job; I applied at several places in my hometown, but was
turned down: most colleges emptied out before my own, so all the college kids returning
home had landed the jobs before I got a chance. I stood in deep water. I knew I needed a
job, but I didn’t have anywhere to turn.
Kaitlyn told me, “I can probably get you a part-time job at the bookstore.”
I’d always wanted to work at a bookstore, but I knew that Mom and Dad would have
a cow. “Thanks, but I need to work someplace close-to-home.”
“I’m going to miss you,” she said. “You’ll be sure to visit, won’t you?”
“Once or twice a week,” I told her.
I called Ams one quiet evening, in tears.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You sound miserable.”
“I fucked up,” I told her. “I fucked up really bad.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I kept one hand on the wheel of the JEEP as I drove it through the projects of
Cincinnati. I kept glancing to the pack of CAMEL LIGHTS sitting in the compartment between
the seats. “I had sex with her,” I told Amber. “I had sex with her.”
A momentous pause. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” I sniffled. “It just happened… so fast.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, after a moment. “Are you okay?”
“Do I sound okay?” I replied, refusing to veil my sarcasm.
“I’m sorry, Anth.”
“I never thought I would do it… But then I did… And now I feel so rotten and
worthless and despicable.”
“Anthony-’’
“I lost my honor, Ams.”
“Anthony. Calm down, okay? It sounds horrible, but… It’s not that big a deal.
Everyone has sex. I mean, not everyone… But do you know how many people actually wait
for marriage? We’re too damn horny, Anthony. You messed up but that doesn’t make you a
bad person.”
Wiping a tear from my eye, I said, “I want to take it back.”
“I know…”
“I’ll never be able to live with myself.”
“The pain and shock will go away, eventually.”
“I don’t think so, Ams. Something changed tonight.”
“What do you mean, ‘something changed’?”
“I don’t know, Ams. But I feel like… Nothing will be the same anymore.”
Curiosity overpowered her: “How’d it happen?”
“I don’t know… We were just making out in the back of the car… And she pulled
down my shirt and started kissing my chest… And I started kissing her chest… Her
breasts… And then our clothes were off and I was on top of her. She guided me inside and
then we did it. Twice. I can’t forget it, Ams. I remember every second of it. The positions we
took, the way she smelt, the way her eyes looked up at me in pure primal longing. We held
one another and it was amazing. But now… Now I regret every minute of it. I’m not the
guy I thought I was.”
“Anthony-’’
“I thought I was different than all the other boys, Ams. I thought I wasn’t all about sex
and making out. I thought I could treat a girl right. I was wrong.”
“Just because you had sex with her doesn’t mean you treated her wrong.”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t become like the other boys… And I failed.”
“It’ll be okay, Anth. I promise.”
“Don’t tell Mom or Dad, okay? I don’t need them breathing down my neck.”
“I won’t. My lips are sealed. Everything will be fine, I promise.”
“I want to believe you, Ams. I want to believe you.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
AND EVERYTHING CHANGES
I wrote in my moleskin journal that night after I got off the phone with Ams:
I am with Kaitlyn and life is wonderful. We became boyfriend and

girlfriend… but then in typical Anthony fashion, I go and screw things up
BIG TIME.
I’m not a virgin anymore. I lost my V-card.
My heart is heavy yet numb with the guilt. I am terrified. I am terrified
she will break up with me. I feel as if I were given the best gift in the world
but I royally trashed it. I let my selfishness, greed, self-indulgence, and
indifference guide me. It was her idea, but I should have been man enough
to say “No.” Instead I messed up badly, and now I must endure the
consequences.
And what hurts the most is that when we were rolling around in the back of my JEEP… All I
could see was Rebecca’s face. I had closed my eyes and imagined that she was Rebecca.
Ams, for better or worse, was right. The next day was easier, and the day after easier still.
The guilt remained, but it soon wore off. My fears were eased: Kaitlyn called and
apologized for looping me into that situation, she wanted me to know that she did still
really like me, and she hoped that the relationship could continue: “We’ll never have sex
again unless both of us want it,” she said, which sounded like a good deal as any to me. We
continued hanging out, and one night at her apartment, I told her, “I want to do it again.”
So we did. Three times. And lying in her bed, naked, with the covers strewn around, one
finger stroking her bare cheek and the other lying upon her naked stomach, I felt like the
world was finally a good place to live in. Her eyes twinkled and her dimples flashed. I held
her close, the warmth of her body against mine so delicate yet powerful. She stole my
breath away.
Caleb eventually figured out what had happened, and he told Elizabeth. Elizabeth
confronted me: “Why in the world are you having sex with her, Anthony? You know it’s
not good for the relationship. And you know that it’s not what God wants.”
“Our relationship is fantastic,” I told her. “We’re closer than ever.”
“This isn’t what God wants.”
My blood boiled. “I don’t really care.”
Her eyes opened in shock. “What?”
“I don’t give a damn about what He wants. I never would have touched Rebecca, and
He took her from me. That whole deal revealed to me that maybe God isn’t as interested in
us as we think. Personally, I think He’s relatively detached from His creation—at least from
a tiny little insignificant boy like me.”
“That’s not true. You know He wants to be involved-’’
ANTHONY BARNHART
“He wants to be involved? In my life? Hah! Sure, I believe you. But the way He treats
me shows the kind of involvement He wants. He just wants to squash me and cause me as
much pain as possible. And, frankly, why should I put up with that? Why should I follow a
God who is sadistically tormenting me every step of the way?”
“Rebecca wasn’t the right person-’’
“It’s not about Rebecca,” I told her matter-of-factly. “It’s about my entire life, a
sequence of events where I am given my hopes and dreams on a silver platter then left
standing abandoned and alone as they are snatched from my fingertips. Does God want me
to be happy? You say so, Elizabeth, but I think that’s a bunch of bullshit. He’s a cosmic
chess player and we’re His pawns, and He uses me to bluff.”
She shook her head. “Anthony, that doesn’t make any sense-’’
“We use protection,” I told her. “Kaitlyn is on birth-control.”
“Birth control doesn’t always work, Anthony. Do you want a baby?”
“Do I want my dreams to come true? Hah! Look at this irony: the only way for my
dreams to come true is to turn my back on God. He wants me to be happy, eh? Whatever.”
The bitterness and resentment flooded through me.
“You’re not playing with a full deck, Anthony.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re thinking crazy. Why are you thinking like this? It’s not you!”
“Maybe all this suffering made me discover who I really am.”
“And who is that?”
“Someone who’s not deceived by myth and fairy-tales anymore.”
“And so you give up on… hope?”
“Real life is a bitch, Elizabeth, but at least it’s real.”
I still hadn’t found a job by the time exams ended. I was packing up my room (I was
moving into a single when school started again) when my phone rang. I answered and
heard Kaitlyn’s voice: “Have you found a place to work yet?”
“No,” I said, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder as I shut a box and
fastened it with my friend Amos’ duct tape.
“Well, I talked to my manager, and he says he could use someone for the holidays.
You’d only be guaranteed a month. We get really rushed during the holidays. Everyone
wants some kind of book for Christmas, it seems.”
“Thanks, Kate, but I can’t. It’s too long a commute.”
“I was thinking… You could stay at my place.”
I paused. “In the guest bedroom?”
“If that’s where you want to stay,” she said.
“I don’t know. I mean, I would like to, that’d be great… But my family is expecting me
back.”
“I understand. Just let me know, okay? I need to know soon.”
“I will.”
“And don’t let your parents make all your decisions for you. You’re not a kid
anymore.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I know,” I said. “I’ll call you back, okay? Give me ten minutes.”
My hands shook as I dialed home. Mom answered the phone: “Hey bud!”
“Is Dad home?” I asked. “I need to talk to him.”
“Yes, hold on a minute.”
A moment later, “Hello?”
“Hey. How are you?”
“Good. It’s good to hear from you. When are you coming up?”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk about. I have a job offer.”
“That’s great news. Where?”
“A bookstore. In Newport.”
A pause. “That’s a long drive, there and back.”
“I know… I was going to stay at Kaitlyn’s place.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“She has a guest bedroom.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Let me think it over.”
A knot formed in my throat. “I’m moving my stuff over there this afternoon.”
A pause. “So you’re dead-set on staying there?”
“I was calling just to let you know.”
Another pause, an awkward silence.
“Dad?” I asked.
“Okay. What about Christmas with the family?”
“I’ll still come. Kaitlyn wants to come, too.”
“What about her family?”
“They don’t celebrate Christmas.”
“Jewish?”
“Apathetic.”
“She can come, I guess.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you want me home this winter.”
“It’d be nice, but… Well, you’re old enough to make your own decisions.”
Kaitlyn was thrilled when she found out that I would take the job offer and move in with
her. I arrived at her apartment late that evening, and she helped me move my stuff inside.
She put it in the guest bedroom. “You don’t have to sleep in here,” she said. “I mean, the
mattress is hard, and it gets really cold because the window’s broken.”
I smiled mischievously. “Then where, O Lovely, shall I dwell?”
“Well, if you want… My bed is big enough for two.”
“I think that will work.”
We kissed and went out to eat, a Bar & Grill, to celebrate.
ANTHONY BARNHART
When Caleb found out I was moving in with Kaitlyn, he went into an uproar. Yelling,
screaming, shouting. The veins popped out of his head. He scared the hell out of me. He
told me I was an idiot, a moron, that I was just digging a deeper grave. He told Elizabeth,
even though I told him not to, and she became upset. Not the shrieking and kicking upset,
but the “I’m so disappointed in you” kind of upset. By now it was obvious that I was
sleeping with Kaitlyn, but it was never said. Common knowledge, you could say. They
both gave my ears a run for the money, and I wasted my breath trying to convince them
that it wasn’t as bad as they thought. They told me Kaitlyn was no-good and a bad
influence on me.
It irritated me to no end that they based their perspectives on Kaitlyn upon faulty,
biased, and unwarranted preconceptions. They hadn’t even seen her—much less met her or
talked to her face-to-face—and yet they automatically decided they knew everything about
her. Granted, we all do it: something about a person—their tone of voice, the way they
walk, the way they talk, even the way they just flip their hair—dictates how we perceive
people. It happens all the time! We all have these preconceived notions about people we
barely know—or people we don’t know at all!—and we let these dictate our perceptions
and interactions with them. Caleb and Elizabeth never met Kaitlyn, yet they had decided
they didn’t need to: she was a good-for-nothing Jezebel hussy (at least in their eyes). They
insisted on telling me this over and over until my cap blew off and I shouted, in the middle
of the cafeteria,
“Why the hell won’t you stop judging people’s worth off of some damn preconceived
notion and get to know them for a change?! Why don’t you shut your mouth until you’ve
actually had a conversation with her? She might not be so bad after all. But what the hell do
I know? Apparently I’m an ignorant kid lacking complete and total common sense, and you
two have become my metaphysical parents who have the God-bestowed wisdom to tell me
exactly how to run my life!” In a lower breath so only they could hear, “Fuck you. All right?
Fuck you and everything you’ve ever done for me. Because in the end, all you want is to
wave your little checkered flag and tell me exactly how far and how fast and for what
purpose to drive. Am I not my own person? For God’s sake, let me live my life. Maybe I
won’t do everything you’d do in the situation, but I’m not you, okay?!”
They stared at me, bug-eyed.
Caleb shut up.
Elizabeth began to cry.
A knot formed in my throat. I shook my head. “I’m sorry…”
Elizabeth wept, “We’re just trying to help. We don’t want to see-’’
“Me hurt again,” I said. “I know. But you don’t understand.”
Caleb said in a tender voice, “We see more than you see. We see where this is going.”
“And where is it going, Caleb? Please, tell me. I’m not all-wise and all-knowing like
you. Enlighten me.”
“I’m done with this,” Caleb said, standing. “You want to screw up your life? Fine, go
ahead. I’ve warned you. I’ve pleaded with you. But you won’t listen. So I’ll let you find out
that my predictions were true. And you’ll come crawling back to me with your mouth
rambling for forgiveness.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I listened to you for too long,” I said. “You helped me, Caleb. And so did you,
Elizabeth. But now that phase is over. And I’m planning on making my dreams come true.
Rebecca stabbed me in the back, but Kaitlyn won’t. She’s too good for that. Christian girls
are bitches.”
A week after I moved in with Kaitlyn, I dropped out of school from C.C.U. When Dad
found out, he was furious. He called and began yelling at me, asking what the hell I was
thinking.
“I can’t keep going there,” I told him in a placid tone. “I’ve tried living that life, but I
can’t anymore. I don’t believe what I used to believe. I want to, Dad, I really do. But when it
feels like God spends His time smiting you, how in the world are you supposed to keep
going? I gave God a chance. He had a chance, and He blew it. So now I’m going to live my
own life now. I can’t go to that school and pretend that I care. I’m not going to live a lie
anymore.”
“Anthony-’’
“I’m trying something new, Dad, and it’s wonderful.”
He wept over the phone.
“Dad… I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t supposed to end up like this. You were supposed to make me proud.”
Shock ran through me. Had he really just said that?
He spoke: “Oh my God. Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“If who I am doesn’t make you proud… If the only way I can make you proud is by
living a lie… Then there’s no point in it.”
“Anthony. I didn’t mean-’’
“I’ll see you soon, Dad.” And I hung up the phone.
I worked five days a week in the bookstore. When I wasn’t working, and when Kaitlyn was
around, we would go to the park, eat ice cream, and watch LAW & ORDER reruns through her
DIRECTV. I really enjoyed life. Lying in bed with her, moving on top of her, her moving on
top of me, the feelings we shared, the great depth of our being entwined together… It
inspired me. I began to feel joy again. I laughed again. I didn’t need God to make me
happy. I had found happiness myself—and it had come to me the moment I left religion. I
embraced agnosticism and began reading popular philosophies while on my break time. A
whole new world opened up to me. Epicureanism became big in my life. I lived out the
balance of work and pleasure, and it brought smiles to my face. As Christmas neared, we
went out and bought a small Christmas tree. We decorated it head-to-toe and set it beside
the large window looking out across the street, the Cincinnati skyline and the I75 bridge in
the backdrop. We would make hot cocoa and cuddle on the couch, and we’d share our
hopes and dreams. Retiring to the bedroom, we would take off each other’s clothes and
move in rhythm with one another, wrapped in each other’s arms and legs, and I’d enter
into her and we’d make wonderful, sweet love. It was magical! And, finally, I slept
peacefully at night.
ANTHONY BARNHART
My mom’s side of the family came over to our house in Springboro for Christmas dinner.
Kaitlyn and I jumped into the JEEP and made the hour-trek. Upon entering the door, Mom
and Dad greeted me. A nervous tension had gripped me the entire time, especially when it
came to confronting Dad. But it dripped away when he embraced me tightly, telling me
how much he missed me. He shook hands with Kaitlyn and struck up a good conversation.
Mom thought Kaitlyn was adorable. Amber liked her, too. My extended family even
accepted Kaitlyn in as part of the celebration. They made her feel at home. We played cards
in front of a fire after eating a turkey dinner, and my aunt made sure to embarrass me with
countless childhood stories. Kaitlyn laughed at each and every one, and my own face
flushed blood-red.
Kaitlyn slept in Amber’s room. I was getting the leather couch ready for my aching and
weary body when Dad came down the steps. He set down two pillows, walked over to a
chair, sat down. I sat upon the couch. The fire in the hearth burned low, down to twinkling
embers.
Dad stroked his beard. “It really is good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” I said.
“After I finished talking to you two weeks ago,” he said, “I cried. Mom came and
asked me what was wrong. I told her about our conversation. The thing is, Anth. I didn’t
mention that you were… ducking out… on religion. That wasn’t really what bothered me.
It was what I had told you. About you not making me proud. See… You make me proud to
be a father, Anthony. You really do. To this day I don’t know why I said what I said. Shock,
I imagine.” A tear sparkled in his eye. “You make me proud. More than you could ever
know. I may not agree with… living in… with Kaitlyn. But she really is a great girl. And I
can tell you two really connect. And that makes me happy. I see that you’re happy, that
you’re smiling again, that you’re acting like yourself again… And that makes me happy. I’m
proud of you for enduring all that you have endured. Most people would have given up.
But not you. You’re a fighter. I know you were suicidal. Ams told me. She found out. And
you endured all that pain… And that makes me so proud. And the way you treat other
people… you love them and care for them… that’s something that the world needs more
of.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m proud of you. Just know that, okay?”
“Okay,” I said in a quiet voice.
A silence as the embers crackled.
Dad stood. “I’m going to go to bed now.”
“Good night,” I said.
I stayed up another hour, watching the embers in the fireplace burn.
Kaitlyn and I loaded up the JEEP the next morning. Dad helped carry her luggage. I asked
him, “Next weekend, right? For your parents’ house? To celebrate Christmas?”
“Yes,” he told me. “Are you guys coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. She wants to meet my entire family.”
Kaitlyn popped her head from around the back of the car. “That’s right!”
Dad approached her. “It was good meeting you.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Mom came out of the garage. “Anthony, can I speak with you a moment?”
“Yeah,” I said, leaving Dad and Kaitlyn in conversation.
We stood in the lawn beside the garage. “I just talked to your grandma. She doesn’t want
Kaitlyn coming for Christmas.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“She says she just wants you to come. She doesn’t approve of her.”
“You mean she doesn’t approve of me living with her?”
“Yeah. She says she doesn’t want her to come because she’s not part of the family.”
I looked over to Kaitlyn, back at Mom. “She really wants to meet them.”
“I’m sorry. She says she’s not allowed to come. She wants you to come.”
“Well, of course,” I said sarcastically. “It’d be bad to bring her, I guess, because it’d
turn into a witch-burning.”
“Anthony!” she scolded.
“Dad’s side of the family is way too conservative.”
“The Bible says not to live with people you’re not married to.”
“I think that refers to having sex with them.”
“And you’re not having sex with Kaitlyn? Come on. You’re too much like you’re
father.”
“If they won’t accept Kaitlyn, then they might as well not accept me.”
“So you’re not coming?”
“They’d try to indoctrinate me anyway, and I’d end up cussing at them.”
“That would throw them off their rocker,” Mom said with a sigh.
Driving back to Covington that night, I finally felt satisfied with life. Kaitlyn slept in the
passenger’s seat, her head propped against the window, chocolate bangs falling around her
eyes. As the city lights surrounded me, I realized that my dream had again latched itself
onto my heart. But this time the dream didn’t burn a gaping hole through my soul; rather,
it became a sweet nectar that promised a new beckoning life. “Things are going to be
different,” I said under my breath. “This time, my dreams are going to come true.” I felt
absolutely convinced of the fact. When we got back to the apartment, I opened the door and
carried Kaitlyn upstairs. I set her down on the bed and watched her sleep. I leaned over
and kissed her forehead. I loved her.
On Wednesday, I found Kaitlyn sitting in the bathroom, the door locked. I knocked several
times, then I heard her crying. “Kaitlyn?” I called out. “Kaitlyn? What’s wrong? Are you
okay?”
She kept weeping.
I knocked. “Katie?”
I heard her stand, then unlock the door. Tears streamed down her face. She leapt into
my arms; I stumbled against the hallway wall, holding her tight. She cried into my
shoulder.
“What’s wrong? Kaitlyn. Talk to me, please?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I’m not ready for this,” she said.

“Ready for what?” My stomach churned. “Ready for what?”
She drew a deep breath. Her fingers dug into my back. A whisper:
“A baby.”
THE DREAM BECOMES A NIGHTMARE
I stood in shock, feeling her clinging to me. “What are you talking about?” I asked. My
voice cracked.
“I’m sorry… This wasn’t supposed to happen…”
“How?” I asked. “You’re on birth control, and-’’
“They gave me the wrong prescription,” she said. “They gave me something for
cramps! I can’t believe this happened…”
“Are you sure?” I asked, running a hand through her hair. “Are you sure you’re
pregnant?”
“I haven’t had my period in two weeks—’’
My legs lost all their strength. Had I not been pinned to the wall, I would have
collapsed to the ground. I kissed her forehead. “That doesn’t mean that you’re pregnant-’’
“I was supposed to have it two weeks ago,” she said, pulling away. Her cheeks
bloated red and her eyes watered. She rubbed some of the tears away, but they kept
coming. “It’s two weeks late, Anthony. I wanted to tell you… But I couldn’t… I was
afraid…”
“Afraid of what?” I asked. “That I’d run?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Oh, Katie.” I held her close. “I’m not running anywhere.”
“I love you,” she said, squeezing me. “I love you…”
“I love you, too,” I said. “I love you, too.”
She pulled away, working hard to compose herself. “I need a cigarette.”
I had stood alone in the hallway, drinking it all in. I walked into the kitchen and felt my
weak knees wobbling. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a jug of orange juice. After
pouring myself a glass, I leaned against the counter, steadying myself with one hand, and I
drank heavily. I emptied the glass and felt my strength returning. I placed a hand against
my chest: my heart was hammering behind the prison of my ribs. Closing my eyes, I tried
to calm down.
I heard crying outside. I opened the door to the balcony and stepped out.
Kaitlyn gripped the railing with one hand and a smoking cigarette in the other. She
didn’t acknowledge my presence, simply took a long drag, inhaled, kept the smoke in her
lungs for a moment, then blew it out. She dashed the ashes from her cigarette into an
ashtray from Cancun.
“You’re smoking that fast,” I said.
ANTHONY BARNHART
“It helps,” she told me, staring out into the trees.
The sun began to set to the west. Shadows danced around us.
I stood beside her, withdrew a cigarette from her CAMEL LIGHT hard pack. I lit the end
and put it to my lips, smoking. The smoke felt good.
She wiped a tear from her eye. She had become mostly composed.
I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “We’ll be okay.”
She shook her head. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t really had time to think that far ahead.”
A whimsical laugh. “Sorry.”
“Oh. No, it’s not your fault.”
“I kind of suspected they were placebos… But I couldn’t afford-’’
“And I should have used a condom. It’s no one’s fault, Kate.”
“Sorry for throwing this on you,” she said, looking over at me.
I exhaled smoke. “Better now than when you go into labor.”
She laughed again. “You’re trying to lighten the mood, aren’t you?”
“Dry humor is how I respond to situations such as this.”
“Well, keep doing it. It’s helping.”
We smoked on the balcony, went through the entire pack.
“I need to go to bed,” she said.
I knew we weren’t having sex that night. Honestly, I could have cared less. She went
inside, and I remained on the balcony. I sat down in one of the cream plastic chairs, felt the
cold December air rushing over me. My fingers came to feel numb as I clutched the
smoldering cigarette. It burned down to my knuckles, and with a curse I tossed it to my
feet, stomping out the embers.
“Fuck,” I cursed, and I stood and went inside.
Kaitlyn slept soundly in her bed. I stripped down to my boxers and crawled in beside
her. She felt my presence and crawled onto my chest, pressing her ear against me. I smelt
her hair in my face as I fell into a rough sleep.
We went out to eat at a fast food chain restaurant the next evening.
“How sure are you?” I asked. We had dodged the subject all day.
“Pretty sure,” she said.
“Do you know for certain?” I asked, dipping a salt-covered fry in ketchup.
“No,” she said. “I mean, I haven’t been tested. But my senses are heightened, I have
weird food cravings, I feel nauseas at strange hours in the day… And to top it off, I still
haven’t had my period.”
“You know… This could be the way your body reacts to the cramp medicine? I mean,
if you didn’t have cramps in the first place… Why, though, would they give you cramp
medicine?”
“My mom’s a Nazi Christian. She still pays for my medical bills. I told them I had bad
cramps, and they gave me medicine for it. I’ve been on it ever since we got together, ever
since the first time in the car. The cramp medicine they give you is some type of birth
control… But the kind they gave me wasn’t a type of birth control. I started having the
ANTHONY BARNHART
symptoms, and I researched it online… And it has no affect on how likely I could get
pregnant.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Anthony… I really did think I was on birth
control.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Two weeks, you say?”
She nodded.
“That’s long enough to get it checked out.”
“I don’t want to. Not yet.”
“Why not? It’d be better to know, wouldn’t it?”
“I want to wait… Another week… And see if I get my period.”
I drew a deep breath. “All right.”
She finished her meal. I drew a fry through ketchup, playing with it as I fought
through a tornado of thoughts. “You know, Kate… We need to expect that you’re
pregnant… And we need to figure out what we’re going to do.”
“I won’t have an abortion,” she glowered.
“Good. I don’t want you to have one.”
We went out to eat the next afternoon, and as we drove home, Kaitlyn asked, “Anthony, can
you be honest with me?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
She navigated a turn. “Do you think… Do you think I’ll be a good mom?”
“What?” I asked. “I’m shocked that you think you wouldn’t be.”
“I just don’t feel like I have what it takes.”
“You’ll be an excellent mom.”
She looked relieved. “And you’ll be a good dad.”
“I hope so,” I said, looking out the window. “I sure do hope so.”
I felt caught in a vortex with no way to escape: I needed someone to talk to, some advice,
and my first thought was Elizabeth. Kaitlyn had gone to work, and I stood in the kitchen,
pacing, holding my cell phone in my hands. I stomached enough courage and dialed her
number. It rang several times before I got the voicemail. I felt relieved; I hung up the phone
and set it on the counter, drawing a deep breath. My phone started to ring. Caller I.D. read:
ELIZABETH. I told myself I wouldn’t answer it, but then it was against my ear.
Elizabeth cooed in her typical fashion, “Long time, no talk.”
“Hey.” My voice was dry. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she said. Quickly, “You don’t sound too great. Is everything ok?”
“You were right. I screwed things up big time.”
“You had sex with her?”
“Yeah.”
Then, “But that’s not why you called.”
“She’s probably pregnant.”
I heard Elizabeth take a long, drawn-out breath. “How sure are you?”
“Pretty sure. Not 100%, but pretty sure.”
“Oh my God… I really am at a loss for words.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I don’t know what to do, Elizabeth.” I sat down at the dining room table. “I’m falling
apart here. Kaitlyn is in shambles. She’s an emotional wreck. And me? I’m not ready for
this, Elizabeth! Sure, I’ve always wanted to be a good dad, but not, like, right now! I can’t
afford a baby. Hell, I’m living in this apartment off Kaitlyn’s good graces. She’s the
breadwinner in this family.” Family. It send a chord of shock rippling through me.
“Have you guys talked about abortion?”
“What? Elizabeth. I’m not going to let her have an abortion.”
“Good. I was just checking.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Elizabeth. I’m so confused.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think so. Hell, I don’t know. Fuck.”
“If she has the baby-’’
“If she has the baby, Elizabeth, I’m not going to give her the boot. That’s not me. That’s
not how I am.”
“I know that’s not you. I know you wouldn’t do that.”
“Just pray for me, okay?” How did that slip out? I almost corrected myself.
“I always am,” Elizabeth said.
“I’m going to go now,” I said. “I need a smoke.”
“Okay, call if you need anything. Things will work themselves out.”
I began to hang up, then, “Elizabeth?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry for what I said in the cafeteria a few weeks ago.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry for shoving my opinions down your throat.”
“But you were right.”
“No one’s right, Anthony. It’s life.”
Kaitlyn came in through the door an hour later.

“How was work?” I asked.
“Busy,” she said, setting down her keys.
“I was thinking we could go grab some food.”
“Oh, really? Where?”
“WAFFLE HOUSE. I’ve been craving their omelets.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why do you like those disgusting restaurants?”
“They’re delicious,” I said with a smile.
“Let me change first.”
As we ate our food—my omelet, though laden with grease, tasted delicious—I
confessed, “This whole pregnancy thing, Katie… It’s scaring the hell out of me.”
She chuckled. “Join the club.”
“I’m just not ready for any of this. I’m not ready to be a dad.”
“Do you think I’m ready to be a mom? I don’t have much of a choice.”
I set down my fork and took a swig of orange juice. “I can’t believe this is happening,
that’s all. I mean, I never thought in a million years that this would happen. I always
ANTHONY BARNHART
relished the day I could tell my family that I’m going to have a baby… But now I’m
terrified of it.” A subtle laugh. “Oh, the irony.”
She glared bullets at me. “What? You thinking about leaving?”
“What? No! I swear.”
“This is your mess, Anthony, you can’t just walk away.”
“My mess? This is both of our messes.”
“If you weren’t so damned horny-’’
“Whoa, whoa, hold the plane. Why are you throwing this on me? I’m not the one who
was taking cramp medicine to keep myself from getting pregnant.”
“So now it’s my fault?” she exclaimed.
“A minute ago you were blaming me. I’m just saying we’re both at fault here. That’s
all.”
She tore off a piece of wheat toast. “Men can be jackasses,” she muttered.
“Kaitlyn. I’m not leaving, okay? I’m not going to run out on you.”
“That’s what all men say when this happens.”
“What makes you think that I’m just another guy? Why are you so afraid of me
leaving you to take care of a baby all on your own? I’m not that kind of guy. You know me.
You know that’s not me, you know I’d never even consider doing that to you.”
She didn’t say anything, just poked at her dry toast.
Tender and calm: “Why are you so scared of me leaving?”
“Nothing,” she said. “No reason.”
“Kaitlyn-“
“Fine. I believe you. Let’s just eat, okay?”
I knew she wasn’t telling me something.
Mom informed me that the Christmas gathering with Dad’s side of the family went well,
even though they talked about me and Kaitlyn the entire time. She told me a handful of the
words mentioned:
“How sad. He was such a good boy, too.”
“Let’s hope they never get married. We don’t want her kind in the
family.”
“How can his mom just sit there and let him do this?”
“Someone needs to give him a good talking. The Bible is clear…”
“We don’t need him here if he’s going to be living with some girl.”
“It was all I could do to keep from strangling them,” she told me.
I laughed dryly.
“Is everything okay?” Mom asked. “You don’t seem like yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Tired.” Emotionally exhausted.
“Is everything okay with you and Kaitlyn?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said.
“Are you sure? You sound-’’
“I’m just tired.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
On New Year’s Eve, Kaitlyn and I went to a local pub, “The Highlander.” She drank several
beers and got absolutely wasted. I tried to keep her from drinking [for the baby’s sake], but
she would have none of it. When the sparkling ball in New York touched down to
inaugurate 2007, she jumped out of her chair and fell to the ground, rolled over onto her
back, laughing. I stooped down and picked her up by her arms, dragged her out of the bar.
Teenagers were running up and down the street, shouting and setting off firecrackers. I
opened the car door for Kaitlyn, but she refused to get in: “The night’s young!” “The night’s
over,” I insisted. I managed to talk her into getting into the car, then I shut and locked the
door, knowing she was too drunk to figure out how to unlock it. As we drove back to the
apartment, she vomited all over the floorboards. She kept apologizing, and I kept telling
her it was okay. Seeing her plastered drove me up the wall; “What the hell is she thinking?”
I screamed inside my head. I got her inside the door, then she fell upon the couch, falling
asleep instantly. I rolled her onto her side and grabbed a bucket, placing it by the couch.
One of her arms dangled carelessly, fingertips brushing the carpet. Her snores shook the
roof. I watched her sleep, then went into the bedroom. Shutting the door, I stripped down
and crawled into bed, staring at the ceiling. Another year. I thought about 2006, how
different it had been than what I’d hoped. Tears welled up in my eyes. I rolled over and
clutched the pillow, stared at the white wall. Raindrops began to patter on the window.
“God, help me.” My first prayer, escaping me when my guard was at its least, and then I
fell asleep.
Kaitlyn had a humongous hangover the next day, so we kept things simple. I ran and
purchased some groceries, and by the time I got back, she was sitting out on the balcony,
smoking a cigarette. I set the brown paper bags down on the counter and went out to join
her. It bothered me that she smoked, too, but I couldn’t say anything about that. I lit the
cigarette and drew a deep breath. The sun barely peeked through peppered dark clouds.
“It’s been three weeks now,” I said. “Still no period?”
She shook her head, winced. “The headache isn’t gone yet.”
“You shouldn’t drink like that. It can’t be good for the baby.”
“You shouldn’t smoke,” she said, nodding to my cigarette. “It’s bad for your lungs.”
“I don’t have a baby growing in my lungs.”
We sat in silence for a little while.
I asked, “When are we going to get that pregnancy test?”
She paused. “I don’t know. Soon.”
“That’s what you said last week, Kate.”
“Why are you so bent on getting a pregnancy test?” she demanded.
“Why are you so bent on not getting one?” I asked.
“We’ll just see if I get round,” she said, patting her stomach.
“Kaitlyn. We need to know. We need to start making changes and-’’
“What kind of changes?”
“Well… For one, we’d need to get our finances together.”
“That means you’ll have to contribute. I’m the one who pays the bills around here.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“We’ll figure that out. And we’ll need to stop smoking. Eat healthier.” I added, “Stop
getting drunk, maybe?”
She sighed. “Life’s a bitch.”
“I was thinking about picking a test up at the store today-’’
She glared at me: “Did you?”
“No,” I said. “No, I didn’t.”
“Good.”
We sat in silence once more.
I could tell she wanted to tell me something; she’d begin moving her lips, but then
she’d stop.
I said, “You can tell me, Katie.”
A tear appeared in the corner of her eye. “I... I can’t.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“It’s… I haven’t told you about it.”
“Told me what?” I asked. “Told me what?”
“Never mind.”
“No, tell me.”
“It’s nothing.”
This continued unabated for the length of half a cigarette. Persistence won out,
though, and she folded: “I never told you about Alex. Alex Hartman.”
“Now’s a good time for me to hear,” I said. I had no idea what to expect.
“I need another cigarette.” She lit it up and took a couple puffs, then, “I don’t talk to
anyone about this. I want to forget it. I met Alex the first week of school my freshman year
at U.C. We both had to come early for a special week-long class before the rest of school
started. Our dorm was co-ed, and he lived across the hall from me. He… Well, we hit it off
well. We hung out a lot, and we quickly became physical. During freshman orientation, we
went camping with a bunch of the new freshman. The staff left, silently encouraging us to
experiment. I lost my virginity to Alex. I became pregnant, and he insisted that I take a test.
He said… he said we needed to find out so we could prepare ourselves. I went ahead and
took the test, and it said I was pregnant. No sooner had I told him than he told me to get
the hell out of his room. He shut the door and locked it on me. He refused to talk to me.”
Tears had welled up in her eyes. “I was all alone and didn’t have any friends. I was only
eighteen, and I didn’t have any friends on campus. Alex had been my only friend. I didn’t
have anyone to talk to, and I couldn’t tell my mom, because she’d flip. I was desperate,
so…” She choked on her words. “So I had an abortion.” She broke down into tears. I stood
and wrapped an arm around her, hunkered down, kissed the back of her head. She stood
and tossed the cigarette. Facing me, “Every night as I fall asleep, I think about that baby. I
think about what I did, and I want to kill myself for it. It haunts me day and night. I just… I
don’t want that to happen again.”
I stroked her hair. “I’m not Alex. Okay? I’m not Alex.”
“I know… I’m just… so scared. I can’t help it.”
“I know,” I said, holding her close. “I know.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Several more days passed. Kaitlyn continually refused to have the pregnancy test done,
despite my many pleadings. I purchased one from the store, knowing it would upset her.
But I knew that once she took it, no matter the result, I would show my love for her by
standing by her side. When I got back to the apartment, I pulled out the box. She refused to
take it, obviously furious that I had bought it. I began yelling at her, telling her over-and-
over that this had to be done and that she needn’t fear: I had no intentions of leaving. “You
can’t keep pushing this away!” I shouted, waving the box in her face. “We need to know,
Kaitlyn. I can’t exist like this any longer, not knowing whether or not I’m going to be a dad
in eight months.” She finally took it and stormed into the bathroom, locking herself in. I
stood outside the door, leaning against the wall, feeling ashamed but knowing it had to be
done. I could hear her crying.
Two minutes later she came out of the bathroom, her face ashen.
“What’s it say?” I asked.
She threw it at my chest; I tried to catch it, but it fell to the floor. As I bent down to
pick it up, she ran into the room, slammed the door. I saw the blue dot on the test: NEGATIVE.
I exhaled a great sigh of relief and slid the test into my jeans’ pocket. I entered the bedroom,
saw Kaitlyn lying on her side in the bed, crying into a pillow. I knelt down beside her and
ran a hand through her hair; “Katie…” I said, but she didn’t let me finish: she twisted
around and embraced me, weeping into my shoulder. I held her as she cried herself to
sleep.
I returned to the apartment the next evening after work. I put my key into the door and
unlocked it. Stepping inside, a disturbing scene gripped me: the boxes of my clothes and
belongings were packed and sitting in the living room. Frowning, I slid the key back into
my pocket and walked towards the bedroom. Kaitlyn came out just as I turned the corner.
She stared at me, then turned and went back into the room. I followed her on her heels; she
was packing her own things.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I’m slightly confused.”
She didn’t look at me as she shut a suitcase. “I need to get away.”
“Oh.” She latched one of her bags shut. “Where are we going?”
“I’m going to my mom’s house.”
“Okay… When will I see you again?”
She looked at me, shook her head. “I don’t know, Anthony.”
“Not quite the answer I was looking for-’’
“What answer were you looking for?”
“Something more… solid, I guess. I’m still confused.”
“So am I.” She began packing another bag.
“So… Are you going to explain this, or am I running on intuition?”
She turned and faced me. “We moved too fast, Anthony. I’m not ready for this, and
neither are you. It was fun, but it’s over. I can’t keep doing this, living like everything is
fine.”
My heart began to sprint. “Katie…”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I have no clue of who I am or what I want out of life. I thought I did, but this whole
pregnancy thing… It shattered this conception. I thought I was ready for a long-term
relationship. I thought I was ready to love and be loved. And I do love you, Anthony, I
really do. And I know you love me. And I know you’re not like Alex. You’re a good man.
But… I just can’t keep doing this.” She began to cry. “I’m sorry, Anthony. It’s over. I need
you to leave. I can’t get on with my life… with you in it.”
A CATHEDRAL IN THE RAIN
I stumbled out of the apartment, tears streaming down my face. I fell against my car, my
chest heaving in broken sobs. The world spun around me, and I couldn’t stand up for fear
of tumbling over. I slid around the side of the car and tried to unlock the door, but I
couldn’t get the right key: the tears in my eyes blinded me.
A stiff rain began to fall. I turned my back to the apartment and staggered to the
opposite side of the street. I walked down the road, sticking to the sidewalk, passing
Victorian-style homes with warm windows filled with images of families dining together in
the stale January rain. The light from the lampposts flashed down around me, their glare
illuminating hundreds of pouring raindrops. I turned down an opposing street, fell to my
knees, picked myself up. The rain became harder, driving into me, each raindrop feeling
like a pricking needle.
I passed a steak diner, and in the window I saw Mark and Rebecca eating, smiling
warmly. Mark’s hand reached across the table and held Rebecca’s. I spun around, hit the
window, slid down onto the sidewalk. I twisted to the side and vomited; the rainwater
washed it away. My head leaned against the window as I sobbed, my tears blending with
the rain. My clothes became soaked, and I shivered, my teeth chattered, the sobs were lost
in growling thunder. Diners crowded the restaurant windows, watching me. Mark and
Rebecca paid no attention.
I pulled out the pregnancy and stared at it; then, with a wild “Fuck!” I hurled it into
the street. A truck passed by, crushing it under the wheels, spraying me with rainwater. A
bearded man leaned out of the window and shouted profanity at me. I didn’t care. I buried
my head in my hands and wept.
I had abandoned the diner. Now I stood in front of a giant cathedral, its stone architecture
rising high into the sky, a white cross glowing before a backdrop of flashing lightning. The
wind drove the rain horizontally into my cheek, and the raindrops stung like white-hot
needles against my skin. I opened my arms, a heavy motion, and fell down to my knees,
the grass cushioning the fall. Rainwater splashed my legs. I opened my mouth and began
to scream: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” A string of curse words poured forth, and then I tumbled
over and wept in the grass, wanting nothing more than to die.
I didn’t hear the car approaching.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I didn’t hear the door open and slam.

I didn’t hear the footsteps.
All I can remember are hands grabbing and pulling me up.
I can vaguely remember sitting in the warm car, crying horrendously.
And then I remember sitting in THE ANCHOR GRILL, my clothes dripping wet, a cigarette
held in soggy fingers. A warm coffee in the other hand. And Elizabeth sitting across from
me.
“How did you find me?” I asked, holding back a new well of tears.
“I can’t explain it,” she told me. “I was restless, so I went for a drive. And it began to
rain, and I got lost. Then I drove by the church, and I saw you there.”
“What swell luck,” I muttered under my breath.
She didn’t say anything.
I took a sip of coffee: “This coffee tastes like shit.”
“Luck?” Elizabeth finally said. “I think providence.”
“I’m not going to pretend like I know what the hell that means.”
“What happened?” Elizabeth asked. “You’re a wreck—not to mention soaked.”
“You were right, Elizabeth.”
“No one’s right, remember?”
“No, you were right.” I cradled the cigarette in my fingers. “So right.”
“Did she leave you?”
“She kicked me out, the moment she found out she wasn’t pregnant.”
“How are you dealing-’’ She stopped herself. “Stupid question.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
ANTHONY BARNHART
CHAPTER SEVEN
Whispers in the Pines
“Better never to have met you in my dream than to wake and reach for
hands that are not there.” (Otomo No Yakamochi)
THE PRINCE & THE PAUPER
Elizabeth brought me to her house in northern Kentucky. She made up the couch for me to
sleep in, then bid me a good night. I thanked her for all she had done, then sat down on the
couch, staring at a mosaic of family pictures against the far wall. I soon stood and went out
onto the covered back deck, where I was shielded from the drizzling rain. The great squalls
of the storm had passed, leaving a cold and dreary rain with the occasional peal of
drowned thunder. I sat in one of her deck chairs and lit up a cigarette. The smoke curled
around my face as I stared forward, eyes in a daze.
My days with Kaitlyn passed before my eyes like a reel on fast-forward. I saw
everything, each moment and smile and captured joy, and all of this sent my heart spiraling
out-of-control. Had I not emptied myself of tears, I would have spilt more as I sat out on
the deck that night. I clutched my fists tightly and looked to heaven. Silent curses filled my
heart. I mentally ranted and raved at God for the shit He put me through. I wanted to do
anything I could to make Him upset. I wanted Him to taste just an iota of the hell I went
through. Voices danced in my head:
“God doesn’t care. He’s poised against you. You knew that from the start.
Why did you ever think this would be different? He took delight in
breaking your heart the moment you let it fall in love. That’s how He
works.”
The door to the deck opened. Elizabeth came out, bundled up in a coat. She tossed me one,
and I put it on to fight off the cold.
“How’d you know I was out here?” I asked.
“My window was open, and I heard you come out.”
“Oh.” I kept smoking the cigarette, held it in my hand: “Is this okay?”
“What? Yeah. It’s fine. I’m not going to harass you about it.”
“I’m sorry, I just really need these right now.”
“I understand. Well, I don’t understand, but I do. I mean…”
I managed a wry smile. “It’s all right, Elizabeth.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
She leaned against the brick side of the house. “You’ll find the one.”
I didn’t say anything, then, “Do you like Disney movies?”
She seemed surprised, confused. “Sure. I mean, yeah. Some of them.”
“My sister loves ‘Beauty & the Beast’. I like ‘The Little Mermaid.’” I looked over at her.
“What’s your favorite?”
“‘Cinderella’,” she told me. “My sister and I used to watch it together.”
“I used to think ‘The Little Mermaid’ was real. But then I learned it was just a fairy-
tale. And now I wonder how I ever believed the story was real. That’s like life, you know?”
I smothered the cigarette against my jeans and then put the butt in my pocket. “Fairy-tales
never leave us. Maybe they morph into something different, or take on a new face, make
themselves out to look more realistic… but they’re always there. We’re drawn to these
fairy-tales. Hope draws us to them, I think. I mean, all fairy-tales have the essence of hope,
hope that a bad world can be good, and that a good world can be better; this hope ignites
something deep down inside of us and we hold onto these fairy-tales as if they were
lifebelts. When we learn that our Mother Goose fairy-tales weren’t real, we replaced them
with different fairy-tales, fairy-tales that seem more possible and even more profitable. We
begin to believe these fairy-tales and fail to differentiate between fact and fantasy.”
She fidgeted her fingers. “I don’t really know what you’re saying.”
“I believed in a fairy-tale, Elizabeth,” I told her, looking into her dark brown eyes. “I
believed in a fairy-tale that goes something like this: ‘There was a lonely man who longed
for the perfect woman, the woman he was meant to be with, and one day she walked into
his life, sparks flew, love ignited, they got married, and they lived happily ever after.’ I was
a fool enough to place a kind of hope in this being real for my own life. I’ve spent days and
months and years wasting my time waiting for this ‘one true love.’ Sure, some people get
lucky and find it. But for most of us—and especially for me, Elizabeth—this idealized
fantasy never actually becomes a reality. And while this fantasy might bring hope, it also
brings with it disillusionment. When that woman—or man, if you’re a woman—doesn’t
show up when we round age 20, or age 30, or age 40, we exclaim, ‘My princess—or prince
—has not come! Where can she—or he—be?” And so we just keep waiting longer and
longer, and our life drips from us, and we die one day realizing that everyone who lives
will someday die, and die alone. And this also plagues us when we date, Elizabeth. There is
someone with a great personality and great charm, but the person isn’t the model of
attraction; so we say, ‘No, this isn’t the one for me, because my future spouse is going to be
marvelously attractive!’ And we get lured into that false belief and give good guys and
good girls the boot.” I lit up another cigarette and continued: “And as the days go by, we
become more and more disillusioned, until finally we succumb to either rationalization or
desperation. We get married, have kids, and when difficulties come—and they will by
necessity of the essence of marriage and raising a family—, and when some of the feelings
fade, when there are things about our spouse we’d like to change, we have the idea that we
somehow messed up or missed out on the one whom we were meant to be with. We missed
the prince for the pauper, I guess you could say. And so comes a whole host of emotions.
Resignation. Futility. Stoicism. We become numb to love because it never matched our
fantasy’s description of what it means to love and be loved.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Elizabeth spoke up: “What do you think it means to love and be loved?”
I let smoke fill my lungs, then blew it out. “I don’t have a damn clue.”
I stood and walked over to the railing, having finished another cigarette. I stuck my hand
out and felt the cold rain splashing my palm. Elizabeth came and stood beside me. I said,
“Rebecca told me that one day I’d meet that Miss Right, and she’d be so amazing that I
won’t want to change anything about her. And she said all I had to do was wait.” I shook
my head and laughed mockingly. “Why do we get so caught up in the fantasy realm that
we become blinded to the opportunities of deep relationships that lie before us? I was
ready to give Kaitlyn everything she wanted, but she bailed. The same for Rebecca. And for
Sammy. All of them are stuck in their dreams for Prince Charming. Well, fuck that dream,
Elizabeth. You know why? Because it’s empty and futile. Perhaps I should be thankful that
I’m not blinded anymore, but to be honest, it makes me absolutely miserable.”
“You’re just dealing with a lot of stress right now,” Elizabeth said.
I muttered, “I’m finally beginning to have a little clarity.”
Her phone rang. She answered it, then ducked inside. I remained on the deck,
watching the rain fall. The wind began to pick up: another storm was coming.
A moment later she returned. “I’m sorry, Anthony.”

“What?” I asked, turning. “What’s wrong?”
Her face had fallen. “Roads are flooded. Rebecca can’t make it home.”
My eyes rolled into the back of my head. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t tell her to get a hotel. She’s with Mark.”
“Yeah, that’s something I would do. Get a hotel, I mean.”
She didn’t respond to that comment. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t have a car, and I have no desire to return to the apartment.”
The doorbell rang. Elizabeth spouted, “Curse words.”
“Just leave me out here,” I said. “I’ll finish my pack and then go to bed.”
“Are you sure?”
“You need to get the door,” I told her.
She went inside. I stood by the railing and held the cigarette between twin fingers. A
light came on in the living area. I turned and saw Elizabeth leading Mark and Rebecca into
the room. She spoke to them quietly, and then both Mark and Rebecca looked towards me.
I knew they couldn’t see me, because the light from inside reflected against the inner side
of the windowpanes. Rebecca looked concerned, and she asked Elizabeth several questions.
Eventually Elizabeth scooted them up the stairs. I turned around and lit another cigarette.
“I bathe in irony,” I told myself. Sarcastically, “God help me.”
I had managed to not interact with Mark and Rebecca at all. They left in the morning, and
their footsteps awoke me. I found it strange that Rebecca and I had once cuddled; she
absolutely ignored me. A twig of pain scrambled through me, but I quickly fell asleep.
Elizabeth drove me back to the apartment. Kaitlyn’s car was gone, but I had my key to get
inside. Elizabeth helped me load my JEEP. I stood in the bedroom of the apartment, fighting
ANTHONY BARNHART
off tears. I followed Elizabeth out the door and shut and locked it. We descended the steps
to entrance to the complex, and then we stood by my JEEP.
She hugged me and told me to keep her updated: “My cell phone is always on. Call if
you need anything, okay?”
I nodded and thanked her for everything: “Sorry your freshman year has been so
chaotic. I didn’t expect any of this.”
“Well, life doesn’t work out like a novel all the time. We can’t just skip ahead and see
what’s coming.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” I said jokingly.
“Take care, Anthony.”
Mom and Dad were thankful to see me. When I told them the news, Mom broke into tears
and held me tightly. Dad cursed under his lips and went out onto the deck. Once Mom
released me, I went out and joined him. He told me that it upsets him how girls are so
finicky; “They never see a good boy when he’s standing right in front of them.”
“I’m not everything you crack me up to be, Dad.”
“Did you treat Kaitlyn right?”
“I loved her in word and deed.”
“Then you are a good boy.” He glared at me. “You’re a good boy. Don’t forget that,
okay?”
“I won’t, Dad. I promise.”
“Why do you always end up dating bitches?”

These were the words Amber spoke to me the moment she found out about how
Kaitlyn had kicked me out of her apartment.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call them bitches,” I told her.
She rummaged through her purse. “Want to go have a smoke?”
We went out onto the deck. She pulled out a box of DJARUM BLACKS and handed me one.
I hadn’t tasted the clove cigarette for months. “I’d nearly forgotten how great these taste,” I
said.
She blew a few puffs of smoke, laughed: “I can’t blow smoke-rings.” She dashed some
ashes onto the plastic table. “Why did Kaitlyn break up with you?”
“She said she was confused,” I replied. “She thought she was ready for a long-term
relationship, but she wasn’t. That sort of thing. She got scared and bailed out.”
“Oooh. That blows.”
“Yeah. It sucks.” My eyes danced over the cigarette. “A lot.”
“So what are you going to do? Keep loving her?”
“I can’t stop loving her. It’s not like throwing a switch.”
“I mean-’’
“I know what you mean. No, I’m going to move on. There’s no reason to keep poking
a dead badger with a spoon.”
“That made absolutely no sense.”
“Hah,” I said. “Welcome to the rhythm of my life: nothing makes sense.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
After much arguing with my father, I decided to enroll back into school. I was accepted
after much run-around with the school staff. They treated me kindly and didn’t ask many
questions regarding why I had dropped out. They even had my Single still on reserve; not
many freshman were coming into school as transfers in the spring semester. I stuck around
home for the last week of Winter Break; and when the month-long break was over, I drove
down to school with my boxes loaded into the back seat of the JEEP. I met some of the new
students on my floor, then went up to the coffee shop for a meeting with all the employees.
Everyone asked how my break had gone, and I told them that it went fine. None of them
needed to know what had happened. Caleb, who worked at the coffee shop, didn’t say
anything, though he invited me to go grab some TACO BELL with him after the meeting.
Michelle knew something had happened but didn’t ask questions; a good thing, for I had
no desire to talk about the last semester.
Caleb said, as we drove down Glenway Avenue towards the fast food restaurant, “I
want you to know that I’m sorry for shoving my opinions down your throat.”
“You quoted me well,” I returned.
“You were right. I got a little carried away.”
“You were right in the end.”
“No one’s ‘right,’ Anthony. This isn’t some wild game of trivia.”
I eyed him. “Have you been talking with Elizabeth?”
He smiled. “Together, we have our eyes on you 24/7.”
“Because you care, I imagine.”
“Yes, Anthony, because we care.”
“Thanks, Brosif,” I said. “I think this semester will be a good one.” But already the
“feelings” were beginning to return…
HAUNTING MEMORIES
What took place over the next several weeks is that to which I am devoting this chapter.
These were difficult times; and while seemingly not as difficult as the period between
Rebecca and Kaitlyn, the tsunami of emotions that crashed over me eventually led me to a
dark and grim resolution which I had only sparsely dared to seriously consider. It began as
a spark, and it rose to a small flame; and that flame, fanned by a host of regret, shame, and
feelings of vast and inoperable inadequacies, evolved into an inferno. I felt like I stepped
among the coals of a volcano, crying out for help and seeing the helicopters swirling above,
but watching as none dared reach down and take me by the hand. God drove those
helicopters, and despite all my pleadings, it seemed He had no intentions of reaching down
with His “Mighty Hand” and rescuing me from my plight.
I came face-to-face with the horrors of the sin I had committed with Kaitlyn. I could
have easily thrust the blame upon her, but I knew that I had no excuse. All my life I had
claimed that I was “not like all the rest,” but in the moment of testing, the gold of my
ANTHONY BARNHART
claims was proven to be the gold of fools. The immense regret and dishonor that showered
over me drove me deeper into seclusion. I could not look my friends in the face, and seeing
Rebecca, whether she was alone or with Mark, struck a chord of pain in my heart: I had
thought I could treat her right, but my true colors vibrated when temptation struck. I was
no more godly than the heathen, and my many words on sexual purity and fleeing from
immorality, which I spoke before those whom I taught at church, became nothing but an
empty vapor. Sure, I had thought they meant something; but in the end, I became
convinced that they meant nothing. Had they meant something, I would not have become
so entrenched in those sins. I would not have given myself over to them without a second’s
thought. I would not have become the person I was.
I can’t tell you how shameful I felt. Many times I tried to tell my father what had taken
place with Kaitlyn, for he refused to believe it. He called me his “good son” and always
reminded me of how proud he was to call me his blood. But every time I picked up that
phone and hovered over the buttons to call, I would shut the phone and toss it on the bed.
Such was the shame that drenched me. My sins with Kaitlyn haunted me like a plague; I
realized that Caleb had been right, and Elizabeth, too. In my depression, I had latched onto
Kaitlyn as if she were a life-preserver; but the waters were too cold and too deep, and the
life-preserver failed. She slammed the door shut on me, and I spent my days wallowing in
self-pity. Classes never seemed so dull; the winter frost and the ice clinging to the trees only
made my heart burn all the more; I longed to see a burst of sunlight in my life, the promise
of something new bearing upon me, but the darkness and shadows and the dead of night
only worsened and grew thicker. I wrote these words in my journal, the first words I had
written in them for a long while:
My life is in shambles. It’s falling apart in front of my eyes, and I have

absolutely no idea what to do. I have been living a life of emotional agony
and wrestling with so much wickedness in my heart. My sins make me
nauseas and sick.
My affections towards Rebecca began to return. Subtly at first, as I pushed them away,
casting them out like ungodly demons. But one evening, as I strode through campus,
bundled in a jacket and gloves and jeans, with the snow sparkling under the lamp-posts
lining the campus sidewalks, I could no longer cast my affections away; for I saw Mark and
Rebecca sitting in the gazebo, under a solitary lamp-post, cuddling and talking, reading the
Bible together. I don’t think they saw me; I spun around on my heels and rushed back to
my room. I shut the door; Caleb was gone. I sat down on my bed and stared at the wall.
Caleb’s watch, which he rarely wore, ticked on his dresser. I hung my head in my hands
and wept.
The next day I would learn that Mark and Rebecca were going to the Festival of Lights
once more, just as they had last semester. I remembered when Rebecca and I sat in the
gazebo, back when we were enfolded within one another’s arms; and she had exclaimed,
“We can go to the Festival of Lights together!” I told her, “And Clifton Falls. Have you ever
ANTHONY BARNHART
been there? It’s beautiful. They string Christmas lights all over the mill and waterfall. And
the waterfall is usually frozen. It’s spectacular.” Her eyes danced as she beamed, “Then we
can go to Clifton Falls, too!”
All a lie.
All a fucking lie.
A few days later, Kyle and I sat in his dorm room and played Gears of War on his XBOX-360.
As we finished, I spoke up, stunning him: “I still like Rebecca.”
His eyes betrayed any sense of compassion; such is his style. Only shock and surprise
could be seen in his eyes and heard in his voice: “Dude, how in the hell can you still like
her? She’s treating you like shit. She treated you like shit when you were dating, and she’s
treating you like shit now. Want to know what I think of her? She’s a conniving, controlling,
manipulative, insensitive, and judgmental girl who only cares about herself and not other
people.”
I didn’t agree with him. “I don’t believe that.”
“I still don’t see how you could like her still. She wasn’t a good friend to you because
she lied to you about Mark, remember? She told you nothing was going on; and they were
secretly dating! She wasn’t honest. Even when she knew you were hurting, she went
behind your back with Mark, knowing the entire time how much it would hurt you. And
she didn’t even give a damn! And remember when you dated? She tried to change you
from who you really are. She has a total lack of personality, and, Anthony, you have an
amazing personality. Sure, you think she’s attractive. But you need someone better. And
remember how she treated you like shit after the breakup and didn’t give a damn about
your feelings? And ever since she has been entirely unsympathetic with you. She tossed
you to the birds and then dashed.”
My eyes glossed over. “Rebecca was my dream girl, Man. When she broke up with
me, my hope for ever being with a good girl died. Now I feel totally inadequate for a girl.”
I looked into his eyes. “I’ll have to settle.”
He would not rest with that. “You have so much to offer, Anthony. You’re one of the
funniest people I know. I’m very selective about my friends, but you’re definitely one of my
best friends.”
BANKRUPT LOVE
Kyle’s words didn’t help. He could not stem the tide of my returning adoration for Rebecca.
One night in mid-January, I was haunted by a dream. In this dream, I saw Rebecca walking
down the aisle, dressed in a beautiful white gown; flowers fell from the ceiling, and she
walked down a silver carpet. At the head of the aisle stood the groom, the “Man of the
Hour”, Mark dressed in a tuxedo and wearing a rose in his pocket. He took Rebecca in his
arms. The dream panned, and I saw myself standing as the Best Man. A knife was in my
hand, and I was cutting my wrists open, letting the blood run down the cuff of my suit,
ANTHONY BARNHART
down my pant-leg, and forming a pool around my polished dress shoes. Rebecca looked at
me, looked away, and kissed Mark. They were pronounced husband and wife as I toppled
over. Everyone cheered. They stepped over my body and into the puddle of blood, their
footprints leaving bloody marks down the aisle. The hall emptied and I was left alone,
surrounded by wilting flowers. When I awoke, my heart was pounding, my chest heaving,
and breaths coming slowly. I stumbled to the water fountain in the hall and took several
drinks of water. My head spun. Somehow, upon returning to my bed at 4:30 in the
morning, and under the light of my cell phone, I wrote with shaking hands these words in
my journal:
I really miss Rebecca. I mean, I really miss her. I will tell no one this, but I
loved her. And I still love her. Even after all that’s happened, I would take
her back in a single breath. She is a good, God-fearing girl. The more I see
her, the more I want her. It is sad that what happened did so because of my
own sins. I believe with all my heart that she is who God wanted me to be
with—but I lost it. Maybe, had I repented when God asked me to do so
following the breakup, we would be together; but because of what
happened with Kaitlyn, I now know that all hope is lost. The pain I have
doesn’t go away. Despite all my prayers and pleadings and sacrifices and
fasting, it just gets more and more intense.
I knew I loved Rebecca. But what did love mean? Over the next week, while sitting cooped
in my room, I explored the concept and reality of love, only to seek a way out. I figured that
if I could discover the true meaning of love—a great task, to be sure!—then I could also
find my way out of it. The following entries are comprised of online journal entries
—“posts”—regarding my findings on love. While seemingly innocent on the cover, these
discoveries all centered around one unspoken desire: to be rid of my love for Rebecca once
and for all. Once that love had floundered, life would be back to normal (or so my logic
went). Oh! how I regretted the very moment I met Rebecca. That day became accursed in
my heart.
“How do you know if you’re in love?” I did some research online, and most
people have the idea that you know you’re in love based on a feeling. You
know you love someone if you want to be around them all the time, if you
want to hear their voice, if your heart flutters at the mention of their name,
if your innate desire is just to be with that person for all eternity. Love
becomes an emotion.
This all sounds good and dandy… but what happens when the emotion
leaves? What happens when dry patches come around? What happens
when you just want to be alone? What happens when you don’t have, even
just for a moment, those “feelings”? Has your love for them left?
ANTHONY BARNHART
Interestingly, psychologists list the seven basic human emotions as joy,

anger, anxiety, pensiveness, grief, fear, and fright. Love is not even
mentioned! So just what is this “feeling” of love that, for many, defines the
very fabric of love?
NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC published an article titled “So what, really, is this thing
called love?” The opening sentence says, “Scientists say that the brain
chemistry of infatuation is akin to mental illness—which gives new
meaning to ‘madly in love.’” The article follows the studies of a female
scientist—Dr. Fisher—who has devoted her life to the study of lust, love,
and infatuation. She has been looking at love through the telescopes of an
MRI machine. When she began these studies, she had volunteers who were
“madly in love” with someone; she put them inside the MRI machine, and
showed them a picture of a neutral object followed by a picture of their
loved on. “What Fisher saw fascinated her. When each subject looked at his
or her loved one, the parts of the brain linked to reward and pleasure—the
ventral tegmental area and the caudate nucleus—lit up.” The chemicals
involved in love ignited the caudate nucleus, in which resides a thick spread
of receptors for dopamine; dopamine is known for creating energy,
exhilaration, focused attention, and motivation. The chemicals involved in
love excite the dopamine which brings an even greater intensity of energy,
exhilaration, and the like. So love puts you in a sort of high… And it’s
borderline mental illness!
This article led me to really contemplate what real love is. “How do you
know if you’re in love with someone? Is it based on feelings? Intuition? Or
do you just know?” I am reminded of the biblical concept of love, stemming
from the Greek word agape. This is the love we are called to have, and it is a
love of action. It is a love of selflessness, servitude, and sacrifice. “How do
you know if you’re in love with someone?” I believe the answer lies here:
“Would I be willing to do whatever is best for them, even if it hurts me?
Would I be willing to serve them no matter how much time and energies it
would cost me? Would I be willing to sacrifice my time, my energies, even
my life for this person? Would I be willing to dedicate myself to their well-
being, to their happiness, even when it costs me my own well-being and my
own happiness?” These are tough questions. In all honesty, if this is the
case, there are only a few people whom I really love. I would gladly
sacrifice myself for my mom, dad, and little sister. And there are many
friends for whom I would take a bullet in a heartbeat. Selflessness.
Servitude. Sacrifice. This, I believe, is the heart of love. Only after
infatuation wears off, I believe, can we really know whether or not we love
someone.
ANTHONY BARNHART
The next day:
What is love? A feeling? An emotion? I used to think so. If love is a feeling

or an emotion, then there are times when, for example, I would not love my
little sister. She gets on my case, she annoys me, she drives me crazy, she
angers me. Yet even when I can’t stand to be around her or when I’m so
angry with her that I want to scream, if someone came into the room with a
gun loaded with a single bullet and said, “Which one of you will die?” I
would, in a heartbeat, throw her behind me and take the bullet. Love, I
believe, is selflessness. It is servitude. It is humility. It is sacrifice. I believe
that’s at the root of true, genuine love. It’s something other-worldly,
something powerful, something mystical, something supernatural. A power
or an influence that takes selfish, greedy, indifferent creatures and turns
them totally around: love.
What about in the romantic realm? Let’s be honest here. Romantic
relationships begin with infatuation. We are attracted to someone’s
personality or to the way they fit into their clothes. That’s how
boyfriend/girlfriend relationships are born. It’s infatuation. We throw
around the word “love” like pixie-stick candy and treat it like it’s something
we’re “in.” But is infatuation really love? Or are we just looking out for our
own best interests? “This person makes me happy. This person makes me
feel good. This person really cares about me.” Infatuation is not pointed at
the other person in the relationship but at ourselves. We search for security,
closure, and happiness in the other person. However, infatuation dies.
When infatuation dies, oftentimes the relationships die. “I’m not in love
with you anymore,” my first girlfriend told me. She did not want to work
things through. She wanted to end it. No, she was never in love with me in
the first place. She was infatuated with me… And when that infatuation
died, so did her desire to be with me. When infatuation dies, relationships
can take two routes: death or birth. The relationship can expire, fizzle out,
decay, dissolve. Or the relationship can evolve into something more
beautiful, more extravagant, more wonderful. Infatuation is the caterpillar
in the cocoon, and love is the beautiful butterfly it becomes once it hatches
out of its shell. The infatuation dies and love begins to grow: we begin to
look towards the others’ interests, begin to care more for the other person
than for ourselves. We begin to truly love them, wishing their happiness
over ours, their well-being over our own. We become willing to sacrifice our
time, energy, resources, even our dreams for their well-being. We become
something entirely different. The relationship transcends to a higher plain,
and an intimacy is experienced that could never be touched or experienced
in infatuation. A deeper, better, and more wonderful feeling is experienced,
something indescribable.
ANTHONY BARNHART
It’s sad to see so many people at my small bible college basing love off of
feelings. It is sad to see so many couples becoming engaged or married after
a few months before the infatuation wears off. It is sad to see couples
breaking up when difficulties or conflicts come (we don’t live in a fantasy-
realm, folks; problems will come). It is sad to see couples ending their
relationships when the feelings of infatuation begin to dim. And it is sad to
love and not be loved back; that is the worst, most heart-wrenching feeling
in the world.
And again:
An uneducated look at my last two posts might prompt the reader to

assume that I believe feelings do not play a role in love. This is absolutely
not true! I earnestly believe that love plays a huge role, but it is not the key
player. I found this online yesterday and thought it might be relevant:
Yes, love [includes] contentment, happiness, lust, needed

companionship; these are, to an extent, offshoots [of love].
What love is, is something that cannot be put into words
very easily. Love is a series of emotions, that when
combined, result in the greatest feeling that you will ever
know. Waking up next to that someone, and snuggling with
them for hours. Looking into her eyes and seeing and feeling
absolute joy. Knowing that if you had a split-second to
choose one moment in your life to spend the rest of eternity,
it would be that one.
Love is knowing you always have that person. The [crap]

can hit the fan, but the most important part of your life—her
—still remains. You do everything for her, as long as she’s
happy.
It is not something you can try to give a definition to. It’s an

elusive animal that resists all forms of accurate description.
But it is unique in that it will reveal all when the time is
right.
So what role do feelings play? It is a scientific error to say that the feelings of
love are formulated in the heart; to say that the feelings of love come from
the heart holds as much validity as saying that the feelings of love come
from the liver! The feelings of love that are experienced come from several
different chemicals in the brain working together—such as dopamine or
ANTHONY BARNHART
oxytocin (the “cuddling” chemical). As infatuation dies out, some new

chemicals in the brain begin working (morphine-like opiates created by
endorphins) and through them we experience intimacy, dependability,
warmth, and shared experiences. As a couple continues to stay together,
they become addicted to these chemicals, resulting in an even greater
intimacy and a desire to be together.
So “emotions” do play a huge role in love, but they are not to be the staple.
What is the staple in any good romantic relationship? According to my
belief, the staple is selflessness, servitude, sacrifice, and respect and
adoration.
Elizabeth drove her white car down the snaking Glenway Avenue; we had decided after a
quick lunch to stop by C.V.S. for toothpaste and deodorant (we were both out). I leaned
forward and turned down the radio. Looking over at her profile, I asked, “How do you
know if you love someone?”
She seemed confused. “Huh?”
“You heard me,” I said.
“Oh. I don’t know. It’s kind of a loaded question.”
“What do you think, though? I mean, you personally?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s probably different for everyone. And I could be really
cliché and just say, ‘You just know when you’re in love,’ and to be honest, I think that’s
actually most of it… But I have learned that you know you love someone when you realize
that you want what is best for them even if it means sacrifice on your part. It’s when you
can’t imagine yourself being with anyone else. It’s when you care about someone else in a
deeper way that you have ever cared for anyone before. It’s when you go through 1
Corinthians 13 and all that stuff adds up. I think that shows true, godly love.” She took a
breath, continued rambling: “It’s where if you talk to them for just the slightest moment, it
makes your day so much brighter. It’s when you constantly think about them, what’s best
for them, how you can make them happy.” She eyed me, curious: “Why?”
I drew a deep breath, forcing myself to speak (for if I didn’t speak it, then I had some
control over its reality); but then, in speaking, I confessed to what I knew to be the case: “I
think I might love Rebecca. I think why all of this shit hurts me so much.”
“Really?” she asked. “Huh. Ummm, why do you think that?”
“I would do anything for her, Elizabeth,” I replied. “Even now, despite all the hell I’ve
gone through, I would give up everything just to call her mine. I would have given her the
world. And I still would. I want what’s best for her. I don’t see myself being with anyone
else, marrying anyone else, raising a family with anyone else. No one else. When we were
together, I felt like God smiled upon us. And the morning I thanked God for answering my
prayers for love, it was that evening that she broke up with me. And I felt convicted that it
was because of the sin in my life. I was convicted that God took her away from me as
discipline. Or punishment. A penalty. Whatever you want to call it. And I still think she’s
ANTHONY BARNHART
the one God wants me to be with. I feel it with every bone in my body, Elizabeth. I feel my
love for her. I think about her, the slightest thought, and it hurts. I see her, and the pain is
unbearable. Life felt right with her. Now I’m lost and confused and jaded.”
She didn’t speak for some time. We stopped at a red light. “Who am I to say you are in
love or not in love? I know what it’s like, and when you’re in love, it doesn’t make a whole
lost of sense, but you know it’s completely real. Experiencing this stuff isn’t always the
most fun, but no one can change what you feel.”
“I just don’t know what to do,” I told her. “I know what I can’t do. And that’s date
anyone. Because whether or not I’m supposed to be with her, I really do love her. And it
would be disrespectful towards other girls, because of my love for Rebecca.”
She sighed, pulling into C.V.S. “Unfortunately, there isn’t anything that you can really
do about the way you feel towards Rebecca.”
I scowled. “Believe me. I know.”
A SERIES OF CONVERSATIONS
How it came about, I really can’t say. All I remember is sitting on the stone wall looking out
over the city, Mark sitting beside me. I think he may have come down from the cafeteria
and sat next to me. Perhaps trying to play a good game. Who knows. He tried small talk,
but I would have none of it.
“I just can’t stand it,” I told him.
He seemed surprised. He flinched, perhaps wishing to leave.
I continued, “It hurts me so much to see you with her. I want to be you. I want things
to be back to the way they used to be, the way they were. I feel like I’m worthless and shitty
and nothing good will ever come my way. I mean, I want to talk to Rebecca about this, but I
know she doesn’t care at all.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “You know that something will come of you.
You just have to wait.” A pause. “And I know this feels shitty.”
“What feels shitty?” I cooed. “What’s happened to me? Or what you’re doing to me
now?”
His round face flushed red. “I’m talking about the breakup.”
“She’s everything I always wanted. I thought she was the one God wanted me to be
with. And now I see her with another guy. A friend of mine. It murders my heart inside. I’ll
never find a girl as good as she is. And if I did, there’s no way in hell she’d end up with a
sorry son of a bitch like me.”
“That’s bullshit,” he said sharply.
“But you deserve her,” I continued. “That I know. You’re a far better man than I am. I
wasn’t worth her. This isn’t self-pity. It’s self-actualization. It’s me understanding how
twisted and messed up I am and how good she is, and that she never deserved me in the
first place: she deserved so much better. And, look, she got it.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I’m no better than you,” he said. “We don’t know why God does what He does. We
just get on the roller coaster and go for the ride He gives us.”
What a sick and twisted analogy, I thought. “All my life, Mark, it’s like God has
sadistically given me my dreams and then taken them away, over and over, again and
again… Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to trust Him? It’s gotten to the point
where I am afraid to thank God for blessings—the few and sparse blessings I actually have
—because every single time I do, they are taken away. And taken away brutally.”
“I’ve been at that point. That point where I couldn’t trust God.”
“It’s so hard,” I rambled. “I have such a hard time believing He knows what He’s
doing.”
“But He does,” he assured me. “He does know what He’s doing.”
“Sometimes I think that He brought you and Rebecca together just to make me hurt
more.”
He sighed. “I don’t think that’s why He is doing this. If He’s doing this.”
I stood. My bones creaked. “Anyways. You deserve her.” The city sparkled in the
deepening dusk. “You really do. I would wish her with no one else.” Those words ached;
they meant nothing. “It just hurts.”
He looked up at me as I gazed into the city. “And it will, for a while.”
“Will what?” I asked.
“Hurt.”
“I know. I know.” I looked down at him, then looked away. Those were the eyes of
betrayal. “Part of me just wants to give up. Just move to another state and start all over.
Maybe then things would be different.” A curse escaped my lips. “This is hell. I feel like
there’s nothing. No hope. None at all. God just strikes at me every time something or
someone good comes.”
“That isn’t God.”
“If it isn’t God, then why doesn’t He step in and help? Why doesn’t He at least act like
He cares? Or when it looks like He is helping, why does the ‘help’ always disintegrate into
just more pain?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “I have no answer.”
“Neither do I.”
He assured, “One day you will step back and understand. I promise.”
I ignored him. “We dated for two weeks, and it’s been months since we broke up.
When will the pain go away? I mean, I feel so abandoned by God. Tormented by God. It
kills me.”
“Hang in there, Buddy. It’ll get better. Like I said. I promise.”
I don’t know if he said those words out of sincerity. It didn’t really matter, I guess.
It didn’t change the fact that I didn’t give a damn about anything that came out of his
mouth.
The next morning, I spoke to Rebecca over the internet—the first words we had spoken in
quite some time. I saw her screen name and had hesitated for nearly half an hour before
saying hello. When she responded, I skipped the small talk and dove into what I wanted to
ANTHONY BARNHART
say. I had told Mark that I wanted to talk to Rebecca about what was going on, and perhaps
because of the conversation I had with him, I suddenly had enough courage to speak, even
though it was over the internet and typed out with weak and shaking fingers.
Me: “Rebecca… I feel so messed up. It’s like everything is wrong with me. I don’t
know what to do.”
Rebecca: “Not everything is wrong with you. You’ll be okay.”
Me: “I know that, logically. But I can’t explain… It’s like I fail as a human being. It’s the
worst feeling in the world. And I have to tell somebody. I can’t keep it all bottled
up inside or I’m going to explode.”
Rebecca: “You’re not a failure, Anthony.”
Me: “I look at everyone around me and see how great they are. I see how close to God
they are, and how everything’s going great for them. And I feel like things aren’t
going great for me because I’m a failure as a person, and God is punishing me for
being who I am. I honestly feel that God took you and me apart because I wasn’t
a good enough human being, and God is punishing me for it. I know you’re
better off without me. You need someone else. Someone like Mark, because he
has a good head on his shoulders and actually does things right. I just screw
everything up and put on masks and live a fake and falsified existence. I mess up
every single day, people laugh at me, I feel empty and embarrassed to be who I
am. I just want to go across the world and start all over again. I just want to cry
right now. I’m not even lying.”
Rebecca: “It’s okay to cry.”
Me: “I don’t know what to do, where to go, who to be. I feel like I’m at the point of no
return, and my whole life is falling apart around me, and there’s no hope of
revival, no hope of change, no hope of a better day. I keep telling myself, ‘This is
it, Anthony… Just give up.’ These are the voices I hear in my head over and
over.”
Rebecca: “I don’t even know what to say.”
Me: “I know. I wouldn’t know what to say, either. Don’t worry about it. I’m just
venting.”
Rebecca: “I know.”
Me: “I’m such a mess right now. Everything I’ve loved has been taken away, and this
isn’t about you. This is about everything. I just… I don’t know how much longer I
can handle this.”
Rebecca: “I’m sure things will get better eventually. Sometimes we get to a place
where the only place to go is up.”
Me: “I feel like no one really cares. It’s like people say they’re my friends without
giving a damn about me. I know it’s not true… But I feel like so many of my
friendships are shallow and fake.”
Rebecca: “I’m sorry.”
Me: “I know it’s a lie. I know that people really do care, and they would be upset if I
did something stupid… But then I think, ‘Yeah, some people would care… But
not many!’ See what I mean about being messed up?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
Rebecca: “Yeah. Sorry. Just being honest.”

Me: “No, it’s okay. I realize I’m messed up, inside-out.”
Rebecca: “I’m sorry.”
Me: “I just wish it would stop. You have no idea what it’s like to be like this.”
Rebecca: “You’re right. I don’t.”
Me: “And people who don’t understand have a tendency to judge and think I’m a bad
person. And people have even told me that! So then I start thinking that I am a
bad person.”
Rebecca: “I don’t think you’re a bad person.”
Me: “I know. I’ve got my problems. We all do. But in my heart, I’m a good person. But
that doesn’t make me feel any less wretched and depraved. I feel like I make God
want to vomit.”
Rebecca: “It’s okay.”
Me: “Do you really think I’m a good person?”
Rebecca: “Yes. Yes, I know you’re a good person.”
Elizabeth and I grabbed lunch in the coffee shop after classes. I wore my work uniform
because I had to clock in the next hour. I munched on a peanut butter and banana sandwich
as she spread mayonnaise over her Santa Fe chicken.
“You haven’t been looking so hot lately,” she said. “Not that you’ve looked your
greatest lately. I can see something—pain, maybe?—written over your face.”
“Not pain,” I said. “Not in the strictest sense. Shame.”
“Shame?”
“I feel like I fail as a human being in every sphere of possibility.”
She sighed. “I can definitely understand that feeling.”
“It sucks balls,” I said without a hint of kidding. “I feel like I’m worthless and shitty
and worth no one’s time, and that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never have a chance at
being happy and content. I was, once—but that died the moment it was born.”
“You can’t give up, though,” she said. “That’s what you always tell me when you help
me with my problems: ‘Don’t give up,’ you say. I’m struggling with similar things, but we
can’t give up. You’re not worthless; deep down, you know this, even if you don’t feel that
way. You’re an amazing, thoughtful, wonderful guy who would do anything for your
friends, anything for me, just to make me happy. For that I’m grateful. Keep your head up,
Buddy. Things will get better. For both of us.”
“It’s good that we understand each other,” I said sincerely. “That’s why I’m so
comfortable talking about this with you. Sometimes I feel like I’m a guy and so I shouldn’t
talk with people—especially girls—about my problems. I’m supposed to be macho, manly.
I’m supposed to have what they call in Mexico ‘machismo’. I’m not supposed to have
problems, or at least problems that give birth to tears. But I find it easier talking with girls
about my problems, because they’re more open about it. They understand better, too, I
think.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“Don’t worry about being ‘manly’, Trust me. We all have problems and struggles—
guy or girl—ad it doesn’t make you any less of a guy for talking about them. I really respect
you for being able to talk about this stuff. I’m here for you no matter what.”
A sly smile. “Thanks.”
“I heard you had a conversation with Caleb. About losing faith in God.”
“You guys talk too much.”
“What do you mean? Losing faith in His existence?”
“No. I believe He exists. I’ve lost faith… in His essence, I guess. I’ve lost faith in the
idea that He really loves me and cares for me, that He genuinely wants me to be happy. It
seems every time something good starts happening with me, it gets ruined—and it’s
entirely out of my control. I treated Rebecca right. I didn’t mess up with her like I did with
Kaitlyn. But yet it failed. Crashed. Exploded. Gone. Right before my eyes. You know? I feel
like He’s out there just trying to make me hurt. I’m His puppet, and when He needs
entertainment, He puts me on His hand and gets to work.”
“Can I be honest with you?” she asked. “I’m going through the same thing.”
I was shocked. “Really? Elizabeth. You’re such a good and pretty girl. You’re not
covered with all the dirt I am. How could you be going through what I’m going through?
You could have almost any boy on this campus with a mere drop of the hat.”
“Hah!” she exclaimed. “Nope! Not true. I struggle with that concept of God every day.
Sometimes I even struggle to just get myself out of bed in the morning.”
“That’s rough,” I said. “It’s depressing. It’s all such a mess.” Then, eyes falling, “I’m a
mess.”
She put her hand on mine. “Keep staying the course, okay? It will be amazing when
things turn for the better. I’m learning that we have to go through the crap to get to the
good stuff. And, Anthony: you’re not a mess.”
“I want to think there’s hope. That a better day is coming. I want to think that God
knows what He’s doing. But, damn, it’s so hard.”
“I know. I know. It’s like once you feel like you can handle life and things will be okay,
it goes straight downhill, worse than ever before.”
“Right. I hit a peak, them BAM!, it falls apart. Sammy. Rebecca. Kaitlyn. Empty. Vanity.
I start thinking, ‘What’s the point of living anymore?’ It’s a question that haunts me. And I
try to ignore it, but I can’t. It’s everywhere. In every breath, every smile, every whisper,
every pulse of my heart. Why should I have hope? Why should I trust a God who has let
calamity befall me over and over? Job might have been able to say, ‘I will yet worship God
even though He smites me,’ but it’s getting more and more difficult for me to do that…
Especially when dumb people say that if you’re good with God and really worshipping
Him, life will be peachy.”
“Whoever said that is full of crap. It’s not true. And I know it’s hard. But even though
it’s super hard, we have to keep trying. Keep taking life day-by-day, minute-by-minute.
Easy to say, sure, but very hard to actually do. And I know this because I go through it
myself. Like I said, I struggle to even wake up because I can’t face another day.”
I mused, half-believing and half-lying to myself, “But things will get better for us. It’s
easy to know this logically. I tell you, when you’re going through hell, ‘Things will get
ANTHONY BARNHART
better,’ knowing that they will for you. And you tell me, ‘Things will get better,’ knowing
that they will for me. That’s logic. But when it comes to us telling ourselves this, we can’t
believe it. We think we are the exception.”
“Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.”
“I just wish I could believe what you say. About things getting better.”
“And I wish I could believe what you say.”
I finished my sandwich, downed it with Mountain Dew. “Quite the paradox.”
“Why don’t we just try to take it one day at a time? And pray for each other like
madness. God may not be seeming to answer our prayers for ourselves, but maybe He’ll
honor our prayers for each other.”
My conversation with Elizabeth helped the most.

Mark helped me think logically.
And Rebecca? Well, she just wasn’t very compassionate, and it seemed like she didn’t
care all that much.
But Elizabeth knew what I was going through. Sadly, she was going through the same
things in different areas of her life (the breakup with Kyle continued to torment her). We
were mirror images of one another when it came to the history of our relationships, the
emotional trauma we were experiencing, and the intense crises of faith we were going
through.
A JADED BOY IN A FADING WORLD
In October, my life turned into a living hell. When I thought the light would
begin shining earlier today, a few words sent it crashing down. Most of the
day has been spent lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in a deep,
trance-like state. My day went uphill when another friend told me that one
of her greatest, most heartfelt prayers has been answered. My heart was
filled with such joy that I have not felt in quite a while. I really wanted to
cry because I know how much this means to her.
Now the tears stem from another emotion. As I sit here, I begin to be
consumed with questions, plagued with confusion.
"How come my prayers for others are seemingly always

answered—but my prayers for myself seem to go nowhere
with God?"
"When will deliverance come? I've been praying for years,

and at times it seems like there's no end in sight."
ANTHONY BARNHART
"Is God deaf to my prayers? Is God blind to my plight?"
Sometimes it seems like all this endurance amounts to nothing. At times it

seems like God ignores my cries: puts His thumbs in His ears, turns His
head away from me, and closes His eyes. Sometimes it seems like all my
prayers rise towards Heaven... and then are scattered by the wind.
Sometimes it feels like God has turned His back on me. Yet I will continue to
endure.
Such were the words I wrote in my leather moleskin journal. I had cried and pleaded and
begged and screamed for God to help me, but each day grew darker and darker. A shadow
draped over my life, extinguishing any laughter, happiness, and peace I had experienced. I
spent my days mulling over the failures of the past—Sammy, Rebecca, Kaitlyn—and
weeping over my own depraved state. My sins continually haunted me, past and present,
and any effort to escape the traps evil set only ended in me falling flat on my face and
bruising my nose. I felt like there was no reason to live, and thoughts of suicide began to
assail me once more. I pushed them away, frightened, but they always crept forward—and
always mingled with a whisper of hope: this is the only route to peace.
A thick snow had fallen overnight, and the roads were still icy. Caleb and I took the JEEP
around the bends and curves towards Mt. Echo. As we pulled up the hill and into the park,
I couldn’t help but gaze down the lane that led to the parking lot where Kaitlyn and I had
first had sex, the place where I had lost my virginity. The park was nearly desolate, for not
many dared risk the drive on the icy roads. We parked beside the Mt. Echo overlook, where
Rebecca and I had, at one time, held one another. We stood beside an abandoned flagpole,
warming our hands, our breaths crystallizing before our eyes. I didn’t say much. Caleb told
me I wasn’t acting like myself. He saw something dark and forbidden in my eyes.
“This is where Rebecca and I came,” I told him. “When she liked me.” A pause.
“Before she broke my heart.”
“Let’s go,” Caleb said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “It’s freezing.”
The air nor the snow were as cold as the sharp spikes in my heart.
Elizabeth decided to treat me to a movie to get my mind off things.

It didn’t work.
As we drove back from the theater, the movie which I could not recall for my thoughts
had been scattered elsewhere, I said, “I have these dreams, Elizabeth. These dreams for my
life. These hopes. Ambitions. And I’m afraid I’ll never experience them.”
“What kind of dreams?” she asked.
“I want to love and be loved. I used to believe that God had the same dream for my
life, but I don’t think so anymore. He’s spoiling my efforts.”
“I don’t think He’s putting you through this,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t think that.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I want to believe there’s hope, but how can I when God dangles my dreams in front
of me, then snatches them away? And then He adds even more pain into the mix! How can
I believe in God’s goodness? I am growing bitter and cold. This suffering… It’s turning me
into a skeleton. I’m becoming apathetic towards all I used to hold dear.” A shudder ran
through me. “Why should I stay with God when He just smites me over and over?”
A few days later, Kyle, Amos and I were playing cards in the STUDENT LIFE CENTER beside the
HILLTOP COFFEE SHOP. Mark, Rebecca, and Elizabeth passed by and entered the café.
I sat down my hand and looked towards the door, saw them sit down at the bar. “I
should go in there and start talking with them. Strike up a conversation. Make Rebecca feel
awkward.”
Kyle jokingly exclaimed, “Do it!”
“Okay,” I said, still staring at the door.
Amos leaned over the table, cocked his head to the side. “Are you serious?”
I kept staring at the door, preparing myself to enter, formulating words.
“Anthony?” Amos repeated. “You’re not actually going to do it, are you?”
“Yeah,” I said, standing up.
I left the table and went through the door. I sat down in a stool right next to Rebecca.
Her eyes shouted: shock! I looked into those estranged eyes and said, “It’s been a crazy last
few months, hasn’t it? My dream girl left me for dead. One of my best friends betrayed me.
My ex treats me like an unwanted, untouchable leper. She acts like she cares, but I know
she doesn’t.” I didn’t know Kyle and Amos were watching through the glass window
beside the door, pushing their faces into the glass. I added without a change in my ominous
tone, “And I’m suicidal.”
No one said anything. Mark and Rebecca stood and left.
Elizabeth sighed, shook her head. “What are you doing? This isn’t helping.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said, still sitting my chair.
“Call me later, okay? I’m not mad.” She left.
Kyle and Amos entered the coffee shop, sat down beside me on the now-abandoned
stools.
Amos said, “She is not your dream girl. You can do so much better than her.”
Kyle agreed. “I never liked her. Even from the beginning. I knew she wasn’t as great as
you thought she was. I really can tell these things.”
I returned home that weekend. Most of the snow had melted and the roads were paved. I
woke up Sunday morning, sad that I was not lying beside Rebecca. I had dreamt we were
married and she was pregnant, and she kept telling me how much she loved me and was
excited about being the mother of my child. I was hungry, but I did not eat. I had to get
ready for church. I went outside onto the deck and lit a cigarette. The sun barely peeked
through gray winter clouds, and the lifeless, bare trees hung quiet and forlorn. The smoke
trailed around me as I prayed:
“Look at me, God. I’m miserable. My dream girl abandoned me. My best friend
betrayed me. You and I are growing more distant with each passing day. I don’t even know
ANTHONY BARNHART
what to do. All I know is that I don’t want this life anymore. I want to be someone different.
You have the right to leave me like this, but you also have the power to transform my life.
The power to make it good and beautiful again. God, I want you to do this. I don’t want to
be like this anymore. I know I don’t deserve it, but I am begging you to change my life. I
can’t do it. Only you can. You have all the power. You do what you want to do. I’m your
child—broken and messed up, bathing in suffering, but still your child. You tell me what to
do, and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything to escape this life. I don’t want to be like this anymore.”
I finished praying.
A cold rain began to fall. It smothered my cigarette. My last one.
“Damn it.”
The door inside opened. Mom leaned out. “Come inside. You’re going to catch cold.”
“AND YOU BLEED JUST TO KNOW YOU’RE ALIVE…”
It is one of the worst feelings in the world: feeling not only abandoned but
replaced as well. When my girlfriend dumped me, my friend “moved in”
on her in less than a week. He told countless people that he was interested
in her a week after the breakup. They pursued a relationship, and now they
have grafted themselves into my circle of friends. He has betrayed me, and
now my ex-girlfriend has taken my spot. Whereas I used to join a group of
people to do things, now it’s everyone excluding me and adding her. And
no one cares one bit. I’ve been replaced and forgotten in a moment.
Everyone is so happy with their relationships and with the people they’re
with and so happy with life; “They’re so cute together!” everyone exclaims.
But is it worth the death and decay consuming my heart? Apparently so.
But I’ll still wear a smile and act happy, because that’s what everyone wants.
There’s no room for a broken pot among the Potter’s field.
I wrote these words in my journal one evening when I found out that a handful of my
friends had gone bowling. They purposefully excluded me because they did not have
enough room: Mark was going and taking Rebecca with him. This had not been the first
time it happened, but this served as the icebreaker for a huge swell of emotions. I didn’t
talk to those people anytime after that, and I still haven’t. The scars were just too much. Our
friendships eventually died, and although my grudges are held against them no longer, it is
too difficult to pick up the broken pieces and start anew. In those days I would sit alone in
the evenings, knowing that Rebecca had replaced me in my circle of friends. I wanted
nothing to do with them.
Another snowfall came, and I spent the day outdoors. It was good to get out of the
dormitory, where memories accosted me, and for a short time I was able to escape the pain
of my existence. Elizabeth, Caleb, Michelle, Trista and I played “snow soccer” on the quad,
ANTHONY BARNHART
messing around with a soccer ball and making dives and tackles in the snow. Elizabeth and
I grabbed hot chocolate afterwards and sat on the stone wall overlooking the city. It was a
beautiful scene, the city laced with snow and caps of ice bobbing in the Ohio River.
“I feel like I messed it up,” I said, sipping the hot chocolate.
“I talked to Rebecca,” Elizabeth said. “She told me the breakup had nothing to do with
you. She just knew it wasn’t going to work out.”
I moaned, holding the cup in my hands and letting it warm frosted fingers, “Why
couldn’t I make her happy?”
“You did make her happy!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “It had nothing to do with her not
being happy. Anthony.” She glared at me, but her eyes were overcome with tenderness.
“She cried all day before she broke up with you, and she cried all night the night she told
you it was over. It hurt her, too.”
The hot chocolate tasted stale. It burnt my tongue. “Yeah, well, she’s moved on. I’m
still dealing with my broken existence.”
That evening I cleaned my room and came across a picture of Rebecca and me cuddling. I
stared at the picture for a long while, then called Elizabeth, holding the dust-stained
picture in front of me (it had fallen behind my fold-out bed). “She’s just a girl,” I told
Elizabeth.
“She is just a girl,” Elizabeth told me. “She’s just an everyday, run-of-the-mill girl.”
“Then why does it hurt me so much not to be with her?”
“Because you’ve elevated her to the status of a goddess. You weren’t with her long
enough to see things about her you didn’t like, so you elevate her characteristics that you do
like. And where there’s mystery, you fill in the blanks with one-hundred-percent desirable
qualities. You’ve blinded yourself. It isn’t Rebecca you want, it’s your ‘dream girl.’ But
you’ve attached your ‘dream girl’ to her, and now you’ve made the two inseparable.”
I drove to Mt. Echo and walked to the wooden bridge where we first cuddled. The
creek had frozen over and was covered with ice. I pulled out a lighter and smoked a
cigarette, then lit the photograph on fire. I saw her smile dissolve in flames and ashes, then,
clutching the ashes in my hand, scattered them out. They peppered the snow.
Elizabeth was right. I had elevated Rebecca to the status of some Greek goddess, and I had
made her and my dream girl inseparable. Knowing this did not ease the pain, though.
Knowledge is not power—especially not power over one’s weak mind. The depression
grew as the days progressed, and I wrote in my diary while sitting in the coffee shop one
night near closing time:
I just want to be happy like everyone else. I am sitting in the school coffee
shop, surrounded by people laughing and having a good time, all of them
completely oblivious to what true despair really is. Not many people have
ever experienced genuine despair. Despair is greater than sorrow, grief, or
intense suffering. Despair is when you stand on the edge of hopelessness,
wanting so badly to experience hope but unable to believe that it is possible.
ANTHONY BARNHART
Despair kisses resignation and bleeds futility. When one despairs, one
totally loses hope and falls upon a bed of thorns, each breath and each move
causing searing, gnawing, numbing pain. The heart becomes cold and bitter,
closed off to the quiet echoes of the world, and the person turns inward,
writhing in self-pity and desiring nothing but death. I have come to the
point of despair: last night I tread through the snow, picked up an ice-
covered stick, and wrote in the snow a memoir of my life: "I WANT TO
DIE."
I pray that God will take away this despair. I fall upon my hands and knees,
and with my head bowed and tears streaming down my eyes, I cry out for
help. And yet I am met with a cold silence.
Have I somehow offended God too much?

Am I not good enough for His help?
Has He completely abandoned me?
Does He not really care for me?
Does He even want me to be happy?
These questions consume me, and doubts begin to crawl into my mind,
penetrating into the inner-workings of my faith. "If God cares for me so
much, why did He lead me right into the heart of agony... And then leave
me there to wither and—perhaps—die?"
I feel myself torn in many different directions. I am torn between hope and
hopelessness: I want to have hope that things will get better, but it takes
every ounce of my strength to believe it. I am torn between change and
stagnation: I want my life to change so badly, yet no matter how hard I try,
how hard I pray, how many tears I cry and how many things I do, nothing
changes; and I am torn between life and death: my misery often leads me to
the brink of destruction, when I think of how wonderful it would be to cut
my wrists, curl up in the corner, and let myself bleed out and fall into an
eternal sleep where all the pain and misery of this world exist no more. If I
did not believe in God, I would have taken my own life by now. Eternity
frightens me.
I lied awake at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the heater in the corner. Memories of
Rebecca assaulted me. I kept hearing her words in my ears, silent but roaring:
“I want to make memories with you…”
“I want to be with you forever…”
“I’ve never liked anyone so much…”
“I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about how much I like you…”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“We’re at the beginning of something beautiful…”

I left the dorm and jumped into my JEEP. As the stars hung over the sleeping city of
Cincinnati, I drove down the four-lane highways and across the bridge into Newport. I
parked my car and walked up the steps into the stone courtyard lined with shops. I glanced
over at BARNES & NOBLE, quiet and lonely. I could hear the sound of music and laughter and
dancing from the bars and clubs across the street. I sat on the bench where Rebecca and I
had once-upon-a-time, in a land far, far away, cuddled. Now I sat there alone, in a world
where no one dwelt. My eyes looked past a few low buildings and to the large club along
the street beyond. Couples sat and smoked and laughed and loved. My heart ached.
I picked up my phone and called Elizabeth.
“Hello?” she asked, groggy.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“It’s three in the morning. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What else do I have left? That which I loved so much has been taken away from me.
Why should I hope? God just dangles my dreams and desires in front of my eyes and then
snatches them away. So either He’s a cruel, sadistic God… or He’s not even there.”
We talked for some time on the phone. Half an hour. Then I hung up.
She didn’t know I was off campus. I didn’t want to scare her.
I lit a cigarette and leaned back in the bench.
I shivered in the cold.
I entered the Hilltop the next day to buy lunch before one of my classes. Mark and Rebecca
sat on one of the sofas, eating together and playing the board-game LIFE. One of his arms
wrapped around her shoulders, and Rebecca stroked his thigh with twin fingers. My heart
ripped. My hands shook uncontrollably; I felt light-headed; the world spun; my heart
raced: a panic attack. I rushed from the coffee shop, nearly tripping over a stool. Elizabeth
entered the coffee shop from another door just in time to see me stumbling out. She had
seen the look of absolute agony over my face, and she had pursued me: but I went too fast,
throwing myself into the back parking lot of the building and stumbling down the hill
laden with brown grass and speckles of melted snow. Several deer scattered into the trees
at the bottom of the hill.
I threw myself through a lock of trees and slid down a muddy slope, coming to a halt
on the trail that had once been the school entrance, the pavement now broken with weeds
and grass, the sides surrounded by a thick hedge of pines. I curled back my sleeves,
breathing heavily, looked at the unstained skin. I grabbed a pencil out of my pocket,
freshly-sharpened, and began slashing at my arm. The blood, the pain… It made all the
suffering vanish. Energy flowed through me. I cut for how long I don’t know, but I can still
remember the sight of the brilliant blood giving life to my heart. It made me feel alive.
I returned to the coffee shop. Mark, Rebecca, and Elizabeth were gone. Elizabeth was
searching the campus for me. Calling Caleb and telling him what happened. I went into the
back room and pulled out the FIRST Aid kit. Kyle came back with a tray of cookies. He asked
ANTHONY BARNHART
what happened to my arm. “I fell into a bush,” I told him as I wiped it down with moist
towelettes and placed a bandage over the wounds. Kyle left, and Nate came back. He was
the supervisor that afternoon. He knew what happened. Kyle did, too. They didn’t say this,
though. I wouldn’t confess it until later, and they would tell me, “We already knew what
you had done.” At that moment, however, I promised myself I would never tell anyone
what I had done.
That was my first time cutting. It eased the pain, but it didn’t take it away.
A deeper cut would be needed for that.
I didn’t cut for two days, but when the emotional pain became overwhelming, there was no
refusing the temptation. I told Caleb I was going to the bathroom after the sun had set. I
glanced down the hallway to make sure he wasn’t following me. I left the dormitory and
went into the woods, leaving footprints in freshly-fallen snow as I traveled to the place
where I had made the first cut. I took a breath and calmly pulled back my sleeves. This time
I did not need a pencil: I had a pair of steel scissors. I stood far from the sight of anyone or
anything. Slow, steady cuts at first, but they became quicker and swifter, deeper and
bloodier. The blood drew itself out in the biting cold. It felt wonderful: it made me feel free
and alive, as all the emotional pain dwindled. With each new slice, bringing more vibrant
red blood to crawl down the back of my arm, my anger thrust heavenward, and I cried out,
as tears began to seep from bloodshot eyes, “You’ve taken everything I’ve ever loved! You
took the only girl that ever meant anything to me! You’ve taken all my joy and happiness
and peace! You’ve left me abandoned and alone!” I threw the knife down and began wildly
kicking the snow. Tears crawled down my face in a slur of verbal obscenities aimed at
nothing except the air. Finally I fell down to my knees, weeping, the blood running down
my arm, a shower of guilt and shame washing over me.
I regret what I did. I regret having to explain to my wife someday that I cut myself out
of the pain of feeling rejected and abandoned by God. The physical pain assuaged, for the
briefest moment, the emotional pain—but the emotional pain always came back harder and
more intense. The darkness that clung around my neck continued to grow tighter and
tighter, strangling me. A noose.
A DARK ROAD PAVED WITH GOLD
Cutting helped take away the pain, but only for a while. Only a temporary solution it was,
and I felt that I could not bear the pain much longer. I began to become more and more
suicidal, not admitting it at first, holding it secretly in the deepest recesses of my thoughts.
But it became more and more evident, and eventually I told Caleb and Elizabeth through
text-messaging where I was: on the brink of taking my own life. They became sick with
worry, and they haunted me day and night, terrified of leaving my side. Who can blame
them? I was a strange, weird kid who could not be tamed by what one should expect. If I
wanted to take my life, what would stop me from doing it?
ANTHONY BARNHART
I confessed to Elizabeth, “I’m dying inside! I hate my life. I hate who I am.” I shook my
head, tears brimming behind my eyes. “I just… I just can’t… go on… like this.”
“Anthony!” she exclaimed. “Please don’t do anything stupid, okay?!”
A deep breath. “I’m not.”
She asked reluctantly, “But you’re considering it?”
I wouldn’t lie. No harm in telling the truth now. “It’s crossed my mind.”
“Anthony. Please. You’re scaring me.”
I told Caleb, “I feel like there’s no hope. Why go on?”

“I promise there’s hope,” he told me. “I know you still like Rebecca very much, and it
kills you to see her with Mark. But you know God is not sadistic. He wants you to be happy.
When ‘she’ comes into your life, she’ll be even better than Rebecca. I promise. He loves you
and won’t let you down.”
That Wednesday night, I knew Mark, Rebecca, and Elizabeth were in the Worship Ministry
sanctuary. I escaped Caleb’s clutches and took the escalator up to the second floor. My heart
was pounding as I walked in. Elizabeth stood at the end of the pew, and Mark and Rebecca
were sitting down. Rebecca leaned against Mark, rubbing his arm. Crawling all over him. A
brilliant anger ran through me; my face became a mask of rage, and my eyes burned like
embers. I could not hide my rage as I quickened my pace. Elizabeth stepped between me
and the two lovebirds.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a shaky, frightened whisper.
“I’m just stopping by,” I told her calmly, matter-of-factly.
“Do you really think this is such a good idea?”
Mark and Rebecca just stared. She had slid off him. Their faces were wide with shock.
I didn’t turn my eyes from Elizabeth. “No.”
Mark and Rebecca stood and quickly and silently left.
My heart shrieked. I balled my fists.
Caleb came through the door, walking over.
Elizabeth told me, “You looked like you were ready to kill Mark.”
Caleb joined us, said, “You shouldn’t have come here.”
I drew a wild breath. “I know.”
Elizabeth: “Then why did you?”
“I don’t know.”
Her voice still quivered with fear: “I’ve never seen your eyes like that. It was scary.
You looked possessed.”
February dawned. Valentine’s Day was coming up, and I feared it with an unspeakable
dread. I couldn’t sleep at night, and often I called Elizabeth. Our conversations generally
went something like this:
“I can’t sleep,” I would say. “Thoughts are consuming me.”
“What kind of thoughts?” she would ask. “Suicide?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“No,” I would reply. It would always be a lie. “I just keep remembering being with
Rebecca. The small things. Her laugh, the sound of her voice, the sparkle in her eyes, the
way she wanted to be with me so much. And doubts about God are hounding me. Like,
‘Does God even give a damn?’”
“I know it’s hard. But God does care. Satan is just placing doubts in your head. The
psalms talk a lot about how it feels like God is not there, but He is, and He cares.”
“I keep praying for help, but it doesn’t come.”
“Then maybe that’s something you need to keep wrestling with God about.”
“It’s so hard, though. My wrestling always leaves me more tired and more broken.”
“I know it’s hard. It’s going to take a lot of work.”
“Sorry for waking you up.”
“It’s okay. No need to apologize. You can call me whenever, no matter the time. I’m
praying for you.”
One time I paused before hanging up, said, “I’m never going to get her back. I have to
live with that. Maybe it was never meant to be. Maybe it was meant to be, but I screwed it
up. Or maybe God doesn’t care who I marry, and I just lost the best. Either way, I have to
live with that.”
I told Elizabeth nonchalantly, “Everyone is freaking out about the idea of me killing myself.
But I am oddly comfortable with it. I mean, I’m not planning on doing it, but I don’t care if I
live or die. I just don’t care.”
“Anthony!” she exclaimed, squeezing my hand. “Please don’t talk like that.”
I stood on the balcony looking over the stone courtyard at Newport, a courtyard lined with
shops: BARNES & NOBLE, COLDSTONE, PAC-SUN, and a fish restaurant. Several teenagers ran
around and held hands, laughing as they scooped ice cream from COLDSTONE waffle bowls.
The sun had set and the city sparkled across the river to the left, and the PURPLE PEOPLE
BRIDGE was hidden in a fog rising from the chilled waters. A cigarette smoldered between
twin fingers aching in the cold, and though my eyes looked upon that bridge—a bridge
that spoke “Sanctuary!” and “Haven!”—I could see only her beautiful smile, feel only her
hand in mine; and I heard not the laughter coming from the teenagers below, but only her
quiet whisper: “Life feels right with you.”
“I thought I’d find you here.”
I didn’t turn at the sound of Elizabeth’s voice. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I checked the bridge first. Morose, I know.” She came up beside me, leaned against
the iron railing.
Taking a hit, “Much to your surprise, I wasn’t there.”
“So what are you doing here? I don’t see you buying anything. And it’s not much fun
to be here by yourself.”
“I’m not here by myself.”
“What were you doing, then?”
“Smoking.” A pause. “Thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
ANTHONY BARNHART
A simple answer: “Life.”

“Do you want to talk-’’
“No. Thinking is hard enough. I don’t need to think about it.”
I cast my cigarette to the ground, stomped it out with my shoe.
She asked, gravely, “You’re not falling apart on me, are you?”
“Would it matter? Nothing matters. It’s all just smoke.”
“Don’t talk like that, okay? You know it’s not true.”
“If I don’t say it, it doesn’t change anything.”
She took my arm, pulled me from the railing. “Why don’t we go get some ice cream?”
“It’s too cold for ice cream.”
“Then let’s go back to campus. Get some hot chocolate.”
We left the balcony.
The bridge hovered silently in the mist.
I still heard its tempting whispers.
THE SNOW BLEEDS RED
Soccer intramurals began. Elizabeth played on a team, and Caleb and I would jump in her
car and go with her to the indoor fields to watch her play other teams from the school. One
night on the way back, as a light snow flurry began to fall, a Rascal Flatts song came over
the radio: “What Hurts The Most.” Elizabeth reached to turn it off, but I told her not to. I
wanted to hear it. She asked if I was sure. I told her yes. As I listened to the lyrics, all kinds
of thoughts bombarded me. I hid them with a smile as I sang the song, but even they could
tell my smile was nothing but a sham.
♫♪I can take the rain on the roof of this empty house
That don't bother me
I can take a few tears now and then and just let them out
I'm not afraid to cry every once in a while
Even though going on with you gone still upsets me
There are days every now and again I pretend I'm ok
But that's not what gets me♫♪
I’d had lots of time that week to get off campus and drive around. I’d been all over:
Eden Park, U.C., Newport and Covington. I’d gone downtown and perused the streets
beside the stadiums. The night before I lied awake listening to the thunder coming in
through the open window. Some days were easy, some days were hard. Sometimes the
smiles and the laughter was real, but sometimes it was something surreal, a mask I wore to
hide the feelings and emotions, veiling everything going on within me. It was on these
random drives throughout the Cincinnati area and lying wide-awake at night despite
exhaustion that the pain became the worst. It was when the memories assaulted me,
ANTHONY BARNHART
blanketing my every move. A knot formed in my throat and tears welled up in my eyes as I
listened to those lyrics. But I kept singing.
♫♪What hurts the most

Was being so close
And having so much to say
And watching you walk away
And never knowing
What could have been
And not seeing that loving you
Is what I was tryin' to do♫♪
This is the pain: for all my life, I’ve been a “hopeless romantic.” When Fall semester of
2006 came, I met a great girl. I told Caleb, “She’s the most wonderful, beautiful, amazing
girl I have ever met!” We talked for a while and started dating. She was everything I’d
always wanted in a girl. She was the first girl I’ve ever loved. Yes. I loved her. Sometimes I
wondered if I still loved her. I remember thinking, “I’m going to marry this girl.” That
thought thrilled me. How could God grant me such grace? I had wondered. And the day I fell
to my knees and thanked God for answering my prayers, she told me, “I’ve lost my feelings
for you.” She was heartbroken because of the break-up, but her tears had dried up. Mine
continued to flow. My heart ached all the time. It was so painful, being so close to my
dream, having so much to say to her—“I love you. I want to be with you forever. I want to
build a family with you.”—and then watching her walk away, watching the relationship
shatter. I wondered what I did wrong, how I messed it up. I was furious at myself for my
mistakes. I made mistakes, yes, but I loved that girl. I didn’t know what I was doing, I was
trying to be the good boyfriend, but I was flying blind. As I visited the haunts where we
had spent time together, my mind carried me to wild yet uncontrollable conjectures: “What
could I have done better? How could I have shown my love to her better? Maybe then it
would have worked out. Maybe then life would be beautiful.”
♫♪It's hard to deal with the pain of losing you everywhere I go

But I'm doin' It
It's hard to force that smile when I see our old friends and I'm alone
Still Harder
Getting up, getting dressed, livin' with this regret
But I know if I could do it over
I would trade, give away all the words that I saved in my heart
That I left unspoken♫♪
Everywhere I went, I walked down the dark streets where memories dwelt. I
stumbled upon their dwelling-places, and they crept into my mind. It was a difficult battle:
fighting off the emotions, the feelings, the questions, the doubts… A struggle against the
pain. It was hard to smile when I saw her with my friends: it returned to me the memories
ANTHONY BARNHART
when we were all together and everything was great, and I smiled and acted happy, but
inside I was dying. I went about my daily routine—getting up, getting dressed—but regret
haunted me. “Why couldn’t I have been everything she wanted? Why couldn’t I make her
happy? Why couldn’t I be the boy she wanted me to be? How come I wasn’t adequate
enough for her?” I wished I would have begged her to try and work through the problems.
I wished I could have told her, “I love you,” and heard her whisper it back. But that’s not
how it worked out. It was never going to work out that way.
I sat in one of my classes, listening to the professor as she read a poem out of our textbooks.
A Vietnamese poem, something about a little Vietnamese girl and her boyfriend hiding out
in a rice paddy. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. I doodled on my paper, mind
consumed with the temptation of killing myself. I could bear the pain no longer, and I
needed a way out. Death seemed so sweet to my ears. Sitting in that stuffy classroom, I
began planning on the best way to do it:
“Should I throw myself off the bridge?
Should I swallow some pills?
Or should I slit my wrist?”
I chose the latter. I knew how to do that one. And I could get a knife from the coffee
shop.
“Anthony.”
I looked up, seeing the professor staring at me.
“Are you paying attention?” she demanded.
“No,” I confessed. “Sorry.”
“Pay attention.”
February 14. Valentine’s Day. It dawned early, and I awoke with a dread. I pulled myself
out of bed and got ready for classes. I didn’t feel suicidal that morning (my suicidal
tendencies varied like the sun and moon and their risings in the sky), but it crept back
when I learned that Mark and Rebecca were going to RED LOBSTER (one of my favorite
restaurants) to celebrate. I had hoped to spend Valentine’s Day with Rebecca, perhaps
going to the park and holding one another. That wasn’t happening. Someone showed me a
picture of Mark and Rebecca, a person who knew nothing of what was going on: they were
dressed up, he in a suit and she in a pink frilly dress, and the person exclaimed, “Aren’t
they so cute?” I smiled a weak smile, went back to my room. Emotions flooded through my
veins. I set my pen to paper, writing calmly and without hesitance. A new peace had
swarmed over me. The peace of a resolution set in stone.
I want to kill myself.

I have only loved one girl. Only one. She was the answer to my
prayers.
And then she left me, and one of my best friends went after her.
ANTHONY BARNHART
My heart is broken and in shambles. I feel absolutely abandoned by

God. I feel like I don't deserve her, I never deserved her, I was too sinful to
ever be with her. I feel as if I was meant to be with her, but I fucked it up.
“Why is my life always like this?! Why doesn't God ever look at me
and answer my prayers?! How come every day of my life thus far has been
spent in pain and agony, and any taste of goodness and grace is quickly
replaced with more pain and agony that makes it disappear?!”
Every time things start going my way, somehow it all gets fucked up. I
get fucked-over. I'm this close to just saying "Fuck it all." Because the way it
looks, God is either a sadistic, cruel bastard who takes delight in making
His children suffer, or He's not there at all. And if God is sadistic and cruel,
He doesn't deserve my worship and I'm not going to place my hope in Him.
And if He isn't real... well, we're just worshiping and praying to the air. Our
hopes are ill-founded dreams. It means nothing. It's all meaningless. This
world is fucked up. I'm fucked up. Hope is a damn illusion.
I wrote a letter for my friends and family, explaining everything:
I remember when I was happy. I remember when I smiled and laughed, and
when my dreams were coming true right before my eyes. I remember, and
the remembrance aches, because I lost that which I loved, and the beauty of
my life has become an unceasing nightmare. I am broken and hurting.
Tragedy upon tragedy is thrust upon me. Tears have become my daily diet
—they soil my pillow day and night. What incredible evil have I done that
life has become so wretched? I dream of cutting my wrists, and the dream
brings comfort. She made me smile; now it is the thought of suicide that
brings me the same comfort. I dream of my greatest masterpiece, an epic
painted in blood with the brush being none other than serrated knives and
the canvas my own flesh. I dreamt last night that I cut my own wrists at the
Overlook at Mt. Echo, where Rebecca and I held one another. I felt the blood
flowing, and it felt so right. When I awoke, I realized that I shall never again
feel alive. I have no way out, save for this single dark avenue. I cannot hold
onto hope that things will get better, for what is hope? Hope is barbed wire:
the tighter I squeeze, the more painful it becomes. Hope? Fuck it. FUCK IT.
Hope is a fairytale we concoct to keep us breathing when we should be
dead. And I should be dead. My life is a nightmare, my existence a living
hell. All I want to do is die: catch a bullet in the head or a cold blade against
my wrists. I used to laugh, I used to smile, I used to love. And now I am
bent over in agony, crying endlessly day-and-night. Life is a torture-
chamber: broken dreams, shattered hopes, vacant destinies. Where is the
Executioner to bring me out of this miserable existence? I don’t want to live
anymore. I don’t want to see her face in my dreams, to remember her
precious laughter in all those sweet-yet-poisonous memories. Death.
ANTHONY BARNHART
Wonderful, beautiful, fantastic death. I am losing my fucking mind because

I lost all that I fucking love. The words of Charles Sanders Pierce resonate
within me: “If man were immortal, he could be perfectly sure of seeing the
day when everything in which he had trusted should betray his trust, and,
in short, of coming eventually to hopeless misery. He would break down, at
last, as every good fortune, as every dynasty, as every civilization does. In
place of this, we have Death.”
I folded it neatly and put it in a white envelope, sitting it on my bed. I wrote TO WHOM
IT MAY CONCERN on the top, put the cap on the pen, and set it on my desk. I grabbed a jacket
and opened my dresser drawer. I pulled out a steak knife I had taken from the coffee shop.
I took one last look at my room, smiled, and left.
I stumbled through the low thickets, my shoes sliding over the freshly-fallen snow. My
hands pushed away branches and grasped at tree limbs to keep me from losing my
balance. I pushed through the underbrush, twigs snapping in my hasty descent, and I
reached the embankment that dropped into a steep hillside overflowing with hibernating
trees whose limbs—covered in polished snow—sparkled in the gentle evening. I remember
it very vividly: the intense cold, the sound of the snow crunching underfoot, the wintry
breeze whistling through the frozen trees, snow falling like dust from the pine needles. I
looked up at the sky, the burning embers of a dying day bleeding from a setting sun. The
panoramic view echoed some scene from an award-winning romantic film. The pain in my
heart cried out for release. I found myself shaking but not because of the cold; it was an
odd shaking that began in my heart—mere tremors—and spread to my hands. It was the
shaking of a soldier before battle, the shaking of a father before seeing the birth of his first
child, the shaking of a bride as she walks down the aisle. It was the shaking that came on
the eve of resolution.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the arctic cold. The
pain felt… wonderful. I tried to hold the pain as long as possible, for it brought a relief
from the torture in my heart. In a moment the pain subsided, and all my senses died and
yet came alive at the same time. My ears heard her wild, ecstatic laugh; my eyes saw the
beautiful hair falling about her face; I felt the softness of her warm cheek against my
fingers. Memories of a dream shattered upon the rocks and scattered out to sea. I stood on
the plateau of hopelessness, steep cliffs leading to my sure demise; but yet what did I have
to hope for on that desolate plateau? Scorching sun, crumbling rocks, a waterless wasteland
inhabited by rotting cactuses and scorpion skeletons; this had become my dwelling-place,
my haunted sanctuary from whence came no escape.
My eyes opened, and I reached into my pocket. Something within me leapt, and it
took me a moment to recognize its true name: excitement. A bolt of exhilaration traced
through my veins as I came to the stark realization that all this hurt, all this agony, all this
suffering would be gone in just a few moments. How long will it take? I wondered. I drew it
out of my pocket, and my eyes danced across the stainless-steel blade I had stolen from the
coffee shop. A rustle of wind came through, shaking the trees, and clumps of fallen
ANTHONY BARNHART
snowflakes dotted the blade, quickly melting. In that moment the enthusiasm faded,
leaving me emotionless.
All I knew was the resolution.
It had come quite suddenly when I had seen them together in that photograph, when
my heart had burned, when I realized—for the first time—that all hope of ever being with
her found itself ill-placed. I will never be with her, I had thought in that moment upon seeing
them wrapped up in each others’ love. I have never loved another, and I will have to watch as
she finds her love in another man’s arms. The terror of such a thought consumed me, and in
that moment I resigned myself to that which had been whispering its temptations into my
ear all along. If I could not bear to exist in my world, then I would take myself out of it.
My hands shook in anticipation, and the chill turned my knuckles white. The tips of my
fingers became numb as I wrapped them around the pale-white handle of the blade. I
thought of everyone I was leaving behind: all the friends who had been at my side, my
family who had done all they could to help me. It tore my heart to pieces, knowing I would
leave them to deal with a whole host of emotions (shock, anger, heartache, despair), that I
would leave them potentially scarred for life. Logic would tell them that this was not their
fault; whether or not they would decide to believe it was their choice and theirs alone. They
had bandaged and gauzed my wounds, but the wounds opened every morning when I
found myself pulled from my sleep; and even in my dreams my soul came to be tormented.
I didn’t want anyone to find me. I hoped and prayed it wouldn’t be anyone close to me, but
I knew that hope was a lie and prayers went to No One. My discovery would be kindled on
the fire of chance.
Placing the serrated blade on my wrist, I took a deep breath… and froze. I can’t do this,
I thought. A civil war raged within my mind. It had seemed so clear as I came through the
underbrush, but now—when the implications came to bear on reality—my resolution
began to founder. I can’t leave them alone. I can’t give up hope. Yet what hope did I have to
retain? Everything I had ever hoped for and dreamed of and prayed for had been taken
from me. Either God was sadistic and not deserving of my hopes, or there was no God—for
how could God torture His children to such a degree? “Hope” was a word tossed around
by the desperate, a pseudo-truth concocted to inspire them to live longer. How many
people who “hoped” for a cure found one? How many people who “hoped” for miraculous
deliverance found themselves truly delivered from their earthly enemies? How many
people who “hoped” in some type of blessing from God really tasted it? Maybe I wasn’t
spiritual enough. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. All I know is that my experience failed to
meet the theology I had been taught in Sunday school. The moment I thought God’s favor
had finally poured itself over me, everything I thanked Him for vanished in a night.
My God, my God, why have You forsaken me? Perhaps the answer was simple: He doesn’t
exist. He cannot curse; He cannot bless; He cannot answer prayers, for He is not real. When
fate hurls itself against us, we accuse God. Perhaps we accuse Him because we think that
He has the power to reverse the “wrath” He has poured upon us. But I had come to believe
that if God was real, He had abandoned me; therefore hope was futile. And if God is not
real, “hope” is just an idea created in the imaginations of creatures who refuse to grasp the
ANTHONY BARNHART
eternal truth that they are in control of their own lives—and No One and Nothing will help
them out.
These thoughts sprinted through my mind, and the next thing I felt was the blade
crossing my wrist. I looked down and saw the skin peel back, blood gushing from the
broken artery. The pain sizzled but died in shock as I saw the blood travel over my arm,
dance between my fingers, and drip into the snow. I could feel my heartbeat in my arm,
and I could see the bright blood coming out with each pulse, a new wave of fluid washing
over my wrist and covering my fingers with each shuddering beat. I tried to clench my
hand, but I had cut the tendon, and I saw the tendon flexing amidst the blood and swollen
flesh of my open wrist. The dribble of blood off my fingers turned into a miniature
waterfall, the blood splattering in the snow and melting it into ruby crystals. My eyes grew
heavy and my knees weakened. My heart began to slow. I stumbled back into a tree and
slid down onto the ground. I laid my arm in the snow and closed my eyes. The blood
melted the snow.
As the darkness began to slide over me, a strange wave of peace washed over my
mind. I saw her standing there, looking at me, her arms crossed, shaking her head, saying,
“You’re such an asshole.” I just smiled at her, and the image faded. I suddenly saw him and
her together, lying in a bed, smiling under the warm sunlight. She leaned onto her elbow,
looked at me, her golden blonde hair falling around her eyes, and she said, “He makes me
far happier than you ever did. I don’t even give a damn that you cut your wrist. We didn’t
even go to your funeral.” The ghostly vision vanished with a sound that I could not
register: a scream, a shout, the crashing of undergrowth… and then I remembered nothing.
ANTHONY BARNHART
CHAPTER EIGHT
Renovatio
“Truly loving another means letting go of all expectations. It means full

acceptance, even celebration of another’s personhood.” (Karen Casey)
A GAME GROWN-UPS PLAY
“Anthony… Put down the knife.”

I stood ankle-deep in the snow, the cold blade held erect in my hand. Snowflakes
danced around me as the wind rustled through the tops of the pines. I looked over and saw
Elizabeth standing in the path, tense, eyes wide. She shook, but not from the cold. I looked
back down at the knife, felt reality coming back to me. I could not understand what had
happened; somehow, the knife remained in my hand, and my arm was unscathed.
“Anthony… Please… Put down the knife.”
I looked back over at her, raised the knife into the air, the blade pointed down.
She stepped forward, shouted, “Anthony!”
I brought the knife down. It escaped from my fingers and plunged into the snow.
My knees gave way and I fell against a tree, the world spinning.
Elizabeth rushed over, took my arm. All strength vanished from my limbs, and I
pitched forward, embracing her, as tears crawled down my cheeks. I wept horrendously,
and she held me, comforted me. She cried as well. I fell down into the snow, sobbing, the
blade glittering in broken sunlight coming through the spindly tree-limbs above. My
fingers burned as I pressed them into the snow. She knelt down beside me, took my hand,
helped pull me up.
“I’m so sick…” I wept. “I’m so sick…”
“It’s okay,” she said, hugging me. “It’s okay. Everything will be fine.”
“I almost did it… I almost did it…” The words came broken between sobs.
“You’re safe, you’re safe…”
“I can’t keep living like this… I can’t… I don’t even feel… alive, anymore.”
“It’ll pass, Anthony. It’s hard. I know it’s hard. But it’ll pass. It’ll pass.”
I sat in the coffee shop, sipping hot cocoa. My clothes were soaked from the snow, and my
cheeks red with the crying. No one bothered us. I held the warm cup in my shaking hands,
tasted the chocolate. My heart skipped. I hung my head low, trying to drown out the
sorrow. There would have been no tomorrow.
“I think you need to start going to counseling,” Elizabeth said.
I refused. “I don’t want to go to counseling.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I know. I know. But it’s gotten really bad. I don’t want you to do something stupid.”
I couldn’t try to suave her fears anymore. All I could say: “I just can’t take it anymore.”
“We’re going to start counseling tomorrow, okay? Caleb already signed you up.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m not going. Counseling won’t make things better. It won’t
bring Rebecca back.”
“No, it won’t,” Elizabeth said. “But maybe it can help you deal with the pain in a right
way. Not a way that involves cutting yourself.”
I overheard Nate talking at the register: “We’ve lost the knife for cutting sandwiches?
It should be in the back.” Someone said, “I checked in the back. And in the front. It’s not
here.” “Did you check the dishwasher?” “Yes, I checked the dishwasher.” “Go get one from
the Dining Hall. And try to find that knife.”
Elizabeth sighed. “You’re going to have to give them the knife back.”
I managed a weak smile. “I’m guessing you won’t let me keep it.”
She smiled back. “Not a chance in hell.”
I started going to counseling, despite my refusal to do so. The first week went well; I
confessed what I had been going through, and the counselor took notes. He gave me a
business card with his cell phone number on it. “Call me anytime.” When I left the
counseling center, Caleb and Elizabeth stood waiting in the hallway.
“How did it go?” Elizabeth asked.
“It went fine,” I said.
Caleb said, “Sorry about going behind your back and signing you up.”
“No, it’s fine. You’re just looking out for me.”
Elizabeth said, “We love you, Anthony. We really do.”
That night, several of my friends had a party in A17, one of the girl’s dorm apartments. We
went in through the back door and found everyone there. Nate was there with his
girlfriend, and Trista embraced me as I came through the door. We played KOOL-AID pong
and watched some chick flick. I met a few people I hadn’t met before: Nicole, Cassie, Cara
and Janelle. We played a card game, but the depression became overwhelming and I had to
leave. I stumbled down into the woods and lit up a cigarette, drew out a plastic knife I had
saved from lunch, and began cutting myself. The pain felt wonderful. I let drips of blood
splatter in the snow, but shame showered me and I stopped. I broke the knife in half and
threw it into the woods. “I can’t keep doing this,” I told myself. “I can’t keep just hurting
myself to get rid of the pain. It isn’t helping one bit, and I damn well know it.”
No one ever found out that I had cut myself again. The scars were high on my arm, and I
bandaged them well by going out to WALGREENS and purchasing cheap BAND-AIDS. Caleb was
in our room, and I sat down and began talking to him. “I’m not over Rebecca,” I said, “but I
don’t think it’s the whole Rebecca thing that keeps depressing me. I’m just really frustrated
with God, you know? I mean, why has He made me like this—a bleeding-heart romantic—
and then left me alone, taking love from me every chance I get to taste it? Why does He
flaunt what I want so badly right before my eyes, and not let me really experience it? Why
ANTHONY BARNHART
does He allow me to taste what I want so deeply, then allow it to be taken away from me?
Honestly, I’m pissed at God. I don’t think it’s a sin. Maybe it is. I don’t know. I told God that
I was pissed. He knows this already, it’s not like a secret or anything. I just can’t stand Him
anymore—as bad as that sounds.”
Caleb was quiet for some time, then, “God knows what you want. And He knows that
because you want it so deeply, you’ll give your heart to any girl who comes along. Look at
what happened with Kaitlyn. Not to point fingers or anything, just making my point.
Rebecca comes along, and you give your heart over to her. Nothing can make you ever
leave her. She isn’t the One, so God did what He had to do. He did it out of love for you,
but it still hurt Him to see you hurt. He doesn’t want you to give your heart over to
someone whom He doesn’t want you to be with over the long run. He’s protecting you,
protecting you from taking what isn’t yours, and thus He is protecting you from missing
out on the One. He knows you can’t see the whole picture, He knows it hurts, but He also
knows that when you do find the One, you’ll look back at this and say, ‘Thank God that
didn’t work out.’”
I nodded. “Yeah. I don’t know. It makes sense though. I just can’t see how Rebecca
can’t be the One. I love her so much.”
“Love is a dangerous and volatile thing,” Caleb said. “It’s a poisonous honey.”
A smirk. “More poison than honey, I’d say.”
“Right now, Anthony, you don’t know who ‘the One’ is. You might know her right
now. You might not. God knows who she is. Right now you’re in a valley, a dark and
lonesome valley where light often doesn’t shine. But you’ll get to the mountaintop. And
then you’ll be back in the valley. And as time goes on, all these valleys and mountaintops
that you traverse through your journeys, they form a masterpiece, and you’ll be thankful
for all the mountaintops and valleys—even the valley where you wept over losing Rebecca.
This whole ordeal, while it seems insanely huge at the moment, will be but one valley in
the midst of a mountain range, when all is said and done. You’re going to hold your wife
tight and kiss her and thank God that she is the One—not Rebecca. You’ll thank God for the
masterpiece He created out of your life, and you’ll thank Him for the hard times and the
good times.”
I flipped through a magazine as I sat in the counseling room, waiting for the counselor to
arrive. The door opened, and he entered. I stood and shook hands, and we sat down. He
pulled up a chair beside me. He looked through his notes and said, “Last time we were
together, you mentioned that you struggle with issues of your self-image. Feelings of
inadequacy, stuff like that. I’d like to go over these things today.”
For twenty minutes I told him how ever since the breakup with Rebecca, I had fought
through feelings of inadequacy in all aspects of my life. When I was finished, he asked,
“Tell me: have you ever had these feelings before, prior to Rebecca?” I dwelled deeper, and
discovered that I had. More and more occasions of these feelings began cropping up. I told
him, “I guess I’ve always had these feelings, but until Rebecca broke up with me, they were
never so intense or clear.” Our time was ending, so he asked me to think about certain
events in my life that triggered these feelings.
ANTHONY BARNHART
I returned to my dorm room and made up a list. It spanned a page long.

Caleb entered the room, asked what I was doing. I handed him the paper. He
skimmed over it and looked up at me. “What is this?”
“You know how I feel inadequate a lot?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve felt that way for a long time. I just never really thought about it. All of these
events that I wrote down triggered the same feelings of inadequacy. Look.” I stood and
moved next to him, pointed to the page. “The first one, for example. When we were little,
Ams hated me. She would always yell at me and tell me how ugly and stupid I was, and
over time, all that stuff added up. And the next one? That’s Kristen. She was a girl I had a
crush on when I was in Junior High. She said she’d date me if we dated in secret, because I
wasn’t popular enough or handsome enough for her to be seen around school with me.
And in High School I was made fun of a lot, and I sat alone at a table in the cafeteria. And
over the past couple months, all the failed relationships—Sammy, Rebecca, Kaitlyn—all
speak volumes. All of this adds onto one another to make me feel like I suck at being a
human being, hence the feelings of inadequacy.”
“Is this for counseling?”
“Yeah.”
He handed the paper back. “Looks like you’re making progress. Taking it seriously.”
“I might as well,” I said. “I’ll give anything a shot to help me out at this point.”
Depression hit me hard that evening when I was shooting pool with Michelle in the STUDENT
LIFE CENTER. She could tell by my downcast face something was wrong; she made the
mistake of asking about it, and I told her. “I have Major Depression, Bipolar Disorder,
General Anxiety Disorder, and mild Schizophrenia. And if that weren’t enough to make my
life a living hell, the girl I love is with one of my close friends, and I’m carrying emotional
baggage from years of neglect, rejection, and abuse. I have no self-esteem, my self-image is
depraved, and I have been suicidal for months, cutting myself to ease the pain. All I feel
anymore is pain: I wear a mask to hide it and act like everything is peachy, and no one has
a damned clue about what’s really going on with me. I’m dying inside, and I feel so alone in
the world. I can’t make people happy, and I can’t help but feel as if God has abandoned me,
then tortured me over and over. It’s a sick existence I live.”
“Oh,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“But I’m doing fine,” I said with a wide smile. “I’m alive.”
The snow had melted by the time I arrived at counseling the next week. The counselor
wanted to do some repressed memory techniques that might help me deal with the pain of
my past experiences. I agreed. He put me into a half-awake, half-asleep “trance,” and then
proceeded to ask me what I saw.
“I’m standing in a living room.”
“What can you see in the living room?”
“There’s a big window. It’s daytime. There’s a couch in front of the window, and there
are two potted palm trees on either side of the couch. They’re fake.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
“What are you doing in the living room?”

“I’m with one of my friends. We’re kissing.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mandy. She’s my first girlfriend. From when I was in kindergarten.”
“So are you guys still kissing?”
“Yes. Wait. No. Someone has come from down the hall. He’s yelling.”
“What’s he yelling about?”
“He says he’ll tell Mandy’s mom.”
“You guys aren’t supposed to be kissing?”
“No. He says that he’s going to tell. Unless I do what he wants me to do.”
“What does he want you to do?”
“He’s taking me down the hallway. Into his bedroom. He shuts and locks the door.
He’s… He’s telling me… To take off my clothes.”
“How old is he?”
“I don’t know. A teenager.”
“What’s happening now?”
“He’s taking off his clothes. So I start taking off mine. He says he wants to play a
game.”
“Does he tell you what kind of game?”
“A game grown-up boys play. He wants me to be a grown-up.”
“What is he doing now?”
“He’s telling me… He’s telling me to go down on him.”
Three snaps. I opened my eyes.
The counselor stared at me, not knowing what to say.
I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.
He cleared his throat. “That’s enough for today, I think.”
My voice was rasp, detached. “Can I go?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you can go. Have a… good week.”
I left the counseling center. Elizabeth was there in the hall to greet me.
“How’d it go?” she beamed.
“Fine,” I said, hiding my tears. “It went fine.”
None of them ever knew what had taken place in that room.
I never went back to counseling.
A PLETHORA OF REVELATIONS
I told no one about what I had seen that day in the counselor’s office, those memories
dredged from the deep recesses of my mind and brought into scrutinizing light. I sat in my
room for much of the day, and I began to wonder if I had just imagined it in my head or
whether or not what I had seen had actually taken place. I researched effects of sexual
ANTHONY BARNHART
abuse, and found that many of the effects were things I had been dealing with a lot
throughout my life: poor self-esteem, difficulty trusting others, anxiety, feelings of isolation
and rejection, depression, self-destructive behaviors, sexual promiscuity, and even
substance abuse (if you will consider tobacco substance abuse). I figured that the whole
ordeal with Rebecca was just the tip of the iceberg, and the breakup had forced ages of
repressed emotions to come exploding to the surface. I lied awake in bed that entire night,
just staring at the ceiling. I felt rotten, worthless, disgusting. Depression consumed me.
Eventually I fell asleep.
The depression lasted several days. I went to class and worked, but most of the time I
crawled under my sheets to try and escape. The vision of my abuse kept replaying over-
and-over in my mind. Finally I pushed it away, refusing to think about it, and things
became easier and better with each passing day. I began to function normally again, and
my DEPAKOTE medicine had a dosage increase per orders of the doctor. I began to feel happy
and serene, though at times the depression began to crowd me again. I could tell I was on
the verge of a breakthrough, but it always seemed just around another corner or over
another hill, not yet in plain sight, unable to be reached.
One rainy night I dreamt that I was talking with Rebecca, begging her to come back to me,
but she kept refusing. I awoke with a start and began crying, cussing uncontrollably under
my breath. My heart rate slowed, and I could hear only my deep breathing, Caleb snoring,
the hum of his computer, and rain tapping on the window. I lied back down and closed my
eyes. To have loved and lost is better than to have never loved at all. “Bullshit” was my last
thought before I drifted back to sleep.
The weekend came, and Kyle and I sat in his room, drinking loose-leaf tea he purchased
from Florida a few weeks ago.
“I feel so unlovable,” I told him.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’m not suave or sophisticated. I’m awkward. I’m physically hideous.”
“That’s bullshit.”
I sipped my tea.
I called Amber later that evening. “Do you think I’m lovable?”
“What?” she asked. “Yes! You’re adorable.”
“Do you think I can make a girl happy?”
“Sexually?”
“Amber.”
“It’s not that hard to please a girl, Anth.”
“What do you mean? Then how come I fail so much?”
“It’s simple to please a girl. You think that girls think like you guys do. What pleases
us isn’t what necessarily pleases you. You guys look for physical fulfillment as a priority;
we look for emotional fulfillment. A guy needs to be loving, caring, sensitive. A listener.” A
ANTHONY BARNHART
pause, then, “You have so much to offer a girl, Anthony. You really do. Whoever ends up
with you will be extremely lucky.”
“I don’t know, Amber.” I could still taste the banana tea on my lips.
“Trust me, Anth. I’m a girl. I know what I’m talking about.”
As time went on, and through many conversations with Caleb and Elizabeth, I began to see
clearly regarding what took place with me, Mark, and Rebecca. It didn’t happen all at once,
but looking back, I can remember many great revelations that came to me through the last
weeks of February and into the beginning weeks of March 2007. I wrote several revelations
in my black journal:
IT’S NOT MY FAULT. God did not punish me for being human. This is not
His doing. Rebecca has no idea what she wants; even her own mother
notices this. She may hurt many boys, and if so, I just happened to be the
first. There is nothing I could have done prior to, during, or after the
relationship to make it work. IT’S NOT MY FAULT.
Mark did not steal Rebecca from me. She does not belong to me. He
pursued her after we broke up. What he did was low, for he betrayed our
friendship… But would I do any better if given the chance?
I am not letting myself move on. I am doing all I can to hold onto what
happened. I don’t know why I am doing this. I must let it go completely
until I can date, or I will just leave a lot of wounded girls in my wake. My
“moving on” will not magically happen. It’ll take work, but it will take
place.
Rebecca is not perfect. I make her perfect in my own mind. I know there are
girls more suitable for me, but I hold onto Rebecca for a mysterious reason
which I cannot quite put a finger on. She is a good girl, but she is not suited
for me. I have the capability to be with a good girl. I am NOT hopeless.
I cannot date until I can see Mark and Rebecca together and not be
emotionally traumatized. Again, this will take time, but it can be done. And
it will take place.
God is not taking joy in my suffering. He wants me to be happy. I must
come to terms with my God who is loving, merciful, gracious, and who
wants me to be happy. He takes no delight in my suffering; He will help me
progress through this into being a better person, more ready for the girl—
whomever she is—whom He wants me to be with.
As long as I continue to refuse to let go of Rebecca and get on with my life, I

will blind myself to other girls who are better suited for me. Girls will walk
ANTHONY BARNHART
into my life, great and fantastic girls, but I may miss them. I may even run
the risk of missing the One whom God wants me to be with.
God’s promises stand forever. He speaks no lies. There is no shadow of

change with Him. He has told me that He has someone out there for me. He
does. She will be more wonderful and amazing than Rebecca ever could
have been. The wait is crazily painful, but I must trust that God knows what
He is doing. His timing is perfect, though it is extremely painful. In this
time of singleness, God is turning me into the person whom He wants me to
be.
Simply having these revelations, however, did not automatically make the suffering go
away. When I would see Mark and Rebecca together, it would hurt. Whether I would see
them in the coffee shop, or walking around campus, or watching movies together in the
worship ministry building at night, cuddling together with Mark’s laptop spread between
them, it didn’t matter. It still bothered me. It was getting easier to deal with, for I constantly
went to prayer whenever the feelings hit. I began to slowly return to God, praying more
and more often. The prayers were always prayers that God would grant me the peace and
joy that had been escaping me for so long. Slowly, but surely, my prayers were beginning to
be answered. Spring was coming, the trees were lighting up with buds, the grass was
greener, the air grew warmer. I felt like a new chapter was dawning.
Michelle, knowing what I was dealing with, told me, “Rebecca is a friend of mine, but I
mean what I say: you deserve someone better. Not that Rebecca is a bad girl. She’s just not
right for you. You need someone who won’t try to change you. She was manipulative and
controlling. She even threatened to end the relationship if you ever did something she
didn’t like. And she’s the same way with Mark: she has him wrapped around her finger.
He’s changed, too. All he ever does anymore is complain. It’s annoying.”
Caleb had been standing with me when Michelle spoke. He said, “I wish you could
see that Michelle is right. You see that Elizabeth deserves one of the best guys in the world,
even though she doesn’t believe it herself. But you can’t see that you deserve someone
better suited for you than Rebecca.”
The weekend came. Mark went to Rebecca’s house for the weekend, and I learned that
Rebecca’s parents really liked him. This caused a well of suffering within me. They had
never met me, and yet they judged me. They had never met me, and yet they hated me.
And Mark was a low-life backstabber, and he found grace in their arms. Trista and I went
out to STEAK-&-SHAKE at one in the morning (her treat) and talked about what I was going
through.
“You’re choosing to remain in a mourning state,” Trista said. “The months are passing
and life is going. This will be a vague memory if you choose it to be. But only if you choose it
to be.”
ANTHONY BARNHART
I sipped my DIET COKE as I waited for my club sandwich and thin fries.
“You know what happened to me, don’t you? With James?”
“Vaguely,” I said.
“We dated for three years. He gave me a promise ring. And then his friends started
spreading lies about me. They told him that I was cheating on him, because they didn’t like
me, and they didn’t want me to be with him. I didn’t cheat on him, of course. I loved him.
James believed his friends and broke up with me. I was devastated for a year. I couldn’t eat.
Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t laugh. I pushed away all my friends and cocooned myself in my
room. You’ve been there. You know what it’s like. But then I realized that life keeps going. I
was refusing to let go of James and what happened. I tried getting back to him, but his
friends kept pulling him away. Finally he started dating other people. He’s engaged now.
Getting married in September. Six months from now. Eventually I had to let the past be the
past and just trust God. I said, ‘God, I don’t like what you’re doing, you’re really pissing me
off, this doesn’t make any sense, but I’m going to trust you.’ Now, nearly a year later, I
realize that James and I would not have worked out. I’m going to Australia in a year for an
internship, and if I like it, then I’m staying there. God knew what the future held for me,
and He knew that if James were in the picture, I wouldn’t get to accomplish the other
dreams I have. You just need to trust God. He’ll honor your dreams—if you honor Him.”
March 8, 2007. My twentieth birthday. A wonderful day. I ate lunch with Trista, then Nate
and I went to Clifton by U.C. to hit up a coffee shop and talk. Trista, Cara and I went by
Cara’s house, and I sat downstairs and played with her cat as she rummaged through her
room, finding a banking book.
As we left the campus, we saw Mark and Rebecca driving right beside us. I leaned out
the window and lit up a cigarette just so she could see it. “Do they know we’re racing?” I
asked; when the light turned green, I hit the gas pedal and we leapt forward, leaving them
behind. “Guess not!”
Candace and I later went to BARNES & NOBLE. I ran into Kaitlyn as I browsed some
Christian books.
“Hi,” she said. “Umm… How are you?”
“I’m good,” I said. “And you?”
“I’m good. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I have a boyfriend now.” She blushed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s fine. He makes you happy?”
“Yes. Yes, he does. He’s a great guy. You’d like him.”
“Still living in the apartment?”
“No. I’m living at home now. Saving up more money. The hair salon.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot about that.”
“Yeah.” An awkward pause. “Well. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Good seeing you.”
“Yeah. You too.”
She left. I continued looking through the books.
ANTHONY BARNHART
Candace came over. “Who was that?”

“An old friend,” I said.
Candace and I drove to APPLEBEE’S, and Jessica and Michelle joined us for a delicious
dinner. The perfect end to a wonderful birthday.
Michelle asked, as we went out to our cars, “What are you doing for Spring Break?”
“I’m going to Washington, D.C.,” I said.
“Really? What for?”
“My dad is having a conference there. I’m just keeping him company.”
MEDITATIONS OVER MACCHIATOS
The next morning was born cold, as spring’s early morning dew sprinkled the air, and
when all the trees began to bud and flower, their limbs etched with the first signs of life,
and as a gentle rain cried down from heaven, I drove to Mt. Echo and stood on the wooden
bridge over the bubbling creek, where Rebecca and I had first truly wrapped ourselves in
each other’s arms. The memories broke my heart, and I stood there fighting back tears.
Then I began to pray: “Just look at me, God. Look at how sinful I am. I’m enslaved to my
own lusts. I desire repentance but fail to actually follow through with it. How can I not
follow my convictions? Ever since that fateful day in October, you have been screaming in
my ear, ‘This happened because you continually fail to repent when I seek your
repentance.’ No wonder the thought of her with another boy hurts me so much. It forces
me to look inward at myself, to see my own wretchedness and how it has destroyed me
and what You had planned for my future.”
God spoke: “Anthony, Anthony, my precious, beloved child. Listen to me: I love you
very much. One day, when you have kids of your own, and they walk down paths that are
not healthy for them—paths that will lead to their ruin—will you do nothing? Will you just
stand there and let them continue on their way to destruction? If you were a bad father,
perhaps you would. But a good father disciplines his children. He steps in and does what is
necessary to keep them from harming themselves or from harming others. He does it out of
love. He is not doing it to be harsh. He truly cares for them and for their well-being. And
while discipline hurts—oh, how it hurts!—you know that the end result is good for their
welfare. This is what I have done to you. I have disciplined you. It is not my burning wrath
heaped upon your head; it is my deep, passionate love for you, and my desire for you to be
happy, and my care for you, that has drawn me to do this. Had I done nothing, you would
continue in your sin. You would ruin what I have for you. You would lose all trace of
happiness.”
My fingers wrapped around the wooden railing, and my eyes stared down into the
gurgling creek. “God, I know the art of discipline. I know the theology of discipline. I’ve
studied it and memorized it and torn it apart verse-by-verse. I’ve taught it in Sunday
School. But I can’t push off these feelings. You know what I mean: these feelings of
hopelessness, these feelings of despair, these feelings that You have abandoned me, that
ANTHONY BARNHART
You don’t really care for me, that You don’t want me to be happy. I have this vision of you
being a sadistic God who delights in making people suffer, and thus I have to spend my life
trying to hide from the blows of Your hammer.”
He spoke tenderly: “Anthony. Don’t listen to these ‘feelings.’ They are lies the Enemy
is putting within you so that you will fail to trust Me; for how can you trust a God in whom
you find no sanctuary? My scriptures speak no lies. Discipline happens, and it has
happened to you. But the root of discipline is love, care, and compassion. Listen to me, and
take my words to heart: I love you. I care for you. I want you to be happy. I am not a sadistic God
who delights in suffering; no, I am a loving God who sometimes uses suffering to bring happiness to
my people. I have not abandoned you. Quite the opposite! I am still here! I know what you’re
going through, and believe me: it breaks My heart. I see the tears you cry, I see the suffering
in your heart, I see the thoughts of suicide that cross your mind. I see all of it, and it kills
Me. Don’t you understand? This is not the epicenter of your life! Victory lies ahead. Let me put
it in words you understand: when the Americans invaded France to find victory over
Germany, they had a long line of suffering in front of them: D-Day, the Battle of the Bulge,
etc. But in the end came victory. You are in the trenches, Anthony. You are—literally—
fighting for your life. But if you will stand firm, if you will let my discipline shape you, if
you continue to trust me and become an even better follower of Mine… victory shall be
yours, and it will be a sweet one that is tastier than anything you could have imagined.”
A tear trickled down my cheek. “God… Part of me believes what you say, and part of
me doesn’t. Is this my sinfulness coming through? I don’t know. I wish You could just…
spell out everything in detail for me. I’m being hounded by all kinds of thoughts and
questions, unable to truly comprehend what’s going on. I’m slowly losing trust in You. It
hurts for me to say it. It’s nothing that I really want to happen. All of this pain and agony…
It overcomes me and begins to chew me away.”
God spoke firmly but lovingly: “Anthony, Anthony, my child. You continued in sin
when I told you not to. I gave you what you always wanted, and then I took it away. I
whispered for you to change, but yet you did not (children can be stubborn sometimes,
can’t they?). So I screamed it at you through your circumstances. I took from you what you
always wanted. I took from you what you still want. I know this comes off looking sadistic
to you. However, I do this so that I can prepare you—so that I can get you ready, in the
right kind of shape—for when I bring ‘her’ right to you. But, my child… You haven’t made
the changes that I’ve called you to make! You sit there and cry out for change. You ask,
‘How long, O God?’ and I ask, ‘How long, O Man?’ I have outlined for you the changes I
want you to make. Why won’t you make these changes?”
“I’m just… I’m afraid this is all there is. What point is there for me to make the
changes? I honestly feel as if I’ve come to the point where there is no hope.”
“I guarantee that’s not the case at all. Hopelessness is the seed of the Enemy. He stands
in my courtroom. He knows the plans I have for you. He knows how I want to use you in
great ways for My kingdom, and he is doing everything he can to keep you from meeting
these ends I have planned for you. He seeds despair, doubt, hopelessness. He does it so that
you will turn your face from Me and not engage in the repentance I want for you so badly.
He knows what shall come when you take the discipline to heart and change… and it
ANTHONY BARNHART
terrifies him. Anthony. This isn’t just about you. You find yourself in the middle of a cosmic
war, and there’s a battle centered upon you. Ever since birth, people have noticed
something about you. People have seen greatness in your eyes. It runs through your veins.
The Enemy fears that this greatness will be poised against him, and he strikes out at you as
best he can.”
Yet I could not bring my mind off Rebecca, off my love for her, off my desire to be
with her till the day I died. “I’ve lost her, God. I’ve lost everything I always wanted. Don’t
you know how much that tears me up? I want to be with her. I want to find myself in her
arms, to smell her hair, to kiss her tenderly on the lips. I want us to be together. I’ve prayed
for years upon years to find a girl like her… and the moment I do, she is taken from me
because of my sin. I fear that it is too late for repentance to do any good. She’ll end up with
another boy. I’ve lost the one.”
With a hint of frustration, God returned, “Anthony. Do you underestimate my power?
If she is the one, then I can easily bring her back to you. I harden peoples’ hearts. I open
peoples’ eyes. In a moment, I can make her wake up and want to be with you. Now, I am
not saying she is the one. I’m not going to tell you everything, for I want you to trust Me. If
she isn’t the one, don’t you think I am powerful enough to open your heart to another, for
her heart to open unto yours, and for you to find that you love her even more than you’ve
ever loved any girl?”
“Yes. I know all of this. But I don’t think it’ll ever happen.” Sighing with the wind
whistling through the barren trees, “Repentance is so damned hard!”
“I know!” God exclaimed. “It’s hard because it goes against your sinful, human, animal
nature. But it is necessary. You belong to me. It’s time you start acting like it. If you continue
living in the sins in which you bathe, then you will just keep yourself from the plans I have
for you. You will give in to the Enemy, and he will have the victory. I know repentance is
hard. It’s been hard for every person who has attempted and succeeded. I know you’re not
going to be perfect. I know you’re not going to look just like my Son. But I want you to
pursue that goal. I mean, really pursue it. I will help you. I will always give you a way out—
endurance! When the temptation strikes, you must endure. You must keep your mind upon
what lies ahead. Here is my promise: repent, and I will make things better. Do you remember
what I told the Israelites through the prophet Hosea, speaking of their coming discipline
under the rod of the Assyrian Empire? I told them, ‘O Israel, you have destroyed yourself!
But in Me is your help!’ Anthony. Your sin has led to your being disciplined… but in Me is
your help. Listen to the words I spoke to King Solomon following the dedication of the
Temple: ‘If I shut up heaven so that there is no rain, or if I command the locusts to devour
the land, or if I send pestilence among my people; if my people, who are called by my
name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked
ways, then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.’ I
have sent discipline upon you… but if you embrace repentance and seek my face… I will
make everything okay.”
I returned home that afternoon. I spent the day with the family, and when night came, I
went out onto the deck and stood looking at the stars, a cigarette tucked between two
ANTHONY BARNHART
fingers. A dog barked somewhere down the street, and I could hear firecrackers going off
near town. I sat down in one of the lawn chairs around the patio table, and as the smoke
ran up the creases of my face and became lost in the strands of golden hair falling before
my eyes, I prayed: “God, I know you want so much more for me. I know it’s hurt you to see
me fall so much. I pray that You reignite me. I pray that You put a flame in me, a flame
unquenchable. I pray that You will bring me back into the fold of trusting You—something
I find nearly impossible to do.”
God would honor my prayer.
Dad and I flew out from the DAYTON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT on Tuesday afternoon, landing in
Washington, D.C. in merely an hour and thirty minutes. We rented a cab and took it to our
hotel, THE HILTON, and found our rooms. We unpacked and watched television, then walked
down the street as the sun set, looking for a good restaurant. We ate at a hole-in-the-wall
Mexican joint, nothing fancy, and to be honest, I didn’t quite care for the food. I made note
of the STARBUCKS on the corner.
I spent most of my time in Washington, D.C. not visiting tourist attractions—such as
monuments and such of that nature—but sitting out on the patio at STARBUCKS, drinking iced
caramel macchiatos and reading my Bible. I had decided to give God the upper hand, and
wherever I opened my Bible, that’s what I read that day, meditating and chewing on it. As I
read through the scriptures, God opened my eyes. Here are copies of the meditations I
wrote down throughout the week while sitting at STARBUCKS with a cigarette in one hand
and a coffee in the other:
Hosea 14.1-8: God has disciplined me, but He wants to restore me! God is
crying out to me, “Return to Me! Come to Me in repentance!” When I
embrace and return to God, He will restore me to a right path with Him,
rain down His love, grace, mercy, and favor lavishly upon me, and rewire
my life: He will start fresh with me, and He will bring me to where He
wants me to be. He will turn the desolate desert of my life into a blossoming
orchard.
Joel 2.12-14: God has disciplined me… but He wants to restore me even
more than I want Him to restore me! It’s not too late for God’s plans for my
life to come to fruition. God is begging me, “Repent!” He wants me to
change my life. Make the changes I need to make. He has disciplined me,
but He is kind and merciful. He wants to lift His rod off me and show me
pity. What is He patiently waiting for? My repentance! When I return to
God in repentance, He will grant unto me that which I lost (restoration)…
and then He will give me even more than I had in the beginning!
Deuteronomy 30.1-10: I have found myself in exile, but God wants to bring
me back on track with His plans for my life. He is patiently waiting for my
repentance. The repentance He seeks involves listening obediently to Him,
ANTHONY BARNHART
obeying His commands, abandoning my iniquities, and turning completely

to Him. When I repent, God will bring me out of exile, restoring unto me
that which was lost; He will have compassion on me; He will give me the
“abundant life” (and then some!); He will enable me to know Him better
(and thus truly live!); and He will outdo Himself in blessing me. God is
telling me, “I have exiled you, but if you will only return to Me, I will
restore you! I want to restore you so badly! No matter how far off-track
you’ve gone, I’ll bring you back! Just return to Me and abandon your sin!”
Hebrews 11.8-40: Faith—believing in the future event that has not yet
transpired and trusting God to keep His promise—is very powerful. It has
the power to change my life. God has much more in store for my life. If I
give up now and resign to being “content” with what I now have, I jip
myself of all the great things God has in store for me. Even though things
may not be going my way right now, I am going to keep having faith in
God. I’m going to trust that He’ll bring His promises to pass. I’m going to
trust that He has my best interests at heart. I’m going to trust that He knows
what He is doing.
Colossians 1.9-10: I often find myself, in a sense, unable to truly grasp and
hold onto some of the truths expressed to Christians through the Holy
Scriptures. I must often—many times daily!—remind myself of these truths:
God is affectionate towards me; God is my Father and Friend; God cares for
me more than I know; it breaks God’s heart to see me in pain, for He does
not delight in peoples’ pain; God wants me to be happy; God wants to bless
me greatly; God has my best interests at heart; and though I may not see it
and may live a life of utter confusion right now, God has a beautiful plan for
my life and knows what He is doing.
Dad and I went out to eat at RUTH’S CHRIS STEAKHOUSE one of the last nights we were there in
D.C. As we ate mashed potatoes and delicious, juicy steaks (honestly, the best I’ve ever
had!), he asked, “So, are there any girls at C.C.U. you’re interested in?”
“Not really,” I said. “I mean, there’s this one girl. Her name’s Cara.”
“Cara, huh?”
“Yeah. I kind of like her. It won’t go anywhere, though.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“Because she has no interest in me.”
The next morning, as Dad went to his last day at the conference, I took a bus out to the
Potomac River. I stood upon a bridge, looking down at the frothing river as a stiff wind
blew cold rain against my back. I managed to light a cigarette and let the smoke fill my
lungs. Repent. That word kept ringing in my ears, and: Restoration. I snuffed the cigarette on
ANTHONY BARNHART
the railing of the bridge, drew out my last pack of CAMEL LIGHTS, took a deep breath, and
hurled them over the edge. They vanished in the mist coming up off the waters.
RE:EMERGENCE
When I got back to campus on Sunday night, Candace, Cara and I went to Newport on the
Levee to enjoy ice cream from COLDSTONE CREAMERY. We sat on a bench that wrapped around
a tree as we spooned ice cream into our mouths, telling about our spring break vacations. I
told them about Washington, D.C.; Cara told us about her trip to her grandma’s house in
Florida; and Candace told us about her exploration of the East Coast with her mom. I kept
smiling at Cara, but she never caught on. *sigh*
Cara and I went for a drive the next day. Both of us just had to get off campus.
Somehow we ended up talking about Christianity and our identity in Christ. What she said
as we drove between the high-rising skyscrapers really struck me: “Christianity isn’t about
living by a new set of moral teachings. It’s not about illuminating Jesus as some great moral
example. It’s not about a new, updated, revised ‘route’ to heaven. Christianity isn’t about a
new perspective on God. People aren’t in need of more information on God. They’re in
need of salvation, in need of rescue and renewal, in need of new life, because we—all
humans everywhere—are dying. Christianity is, mostly, about new life in God. Because of
this new life, we have a new identity. Our identity is that of children of God, friends of
God, we’re ‘in Christ’ and ‘in the Spirit.’ Through Christ, God bestows a new identity upon
us. We are carried out of the kingdom of darkness and into the kingdom of light. Our
identity means that we are one hundred percent holy and blameless before God, and
whether or not we reflect this holiness and goodness in our lives doesn’t make us any more
or any less holy. Our identity has changed, and it’s not dependent on how we live but on
Jesus.” She took a breath. “Sorry… Sometimes I ramble… Sorry…”
“No, it was good,” I said. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Me being holy and blameless. I always measured my worth by my deeds.”
“We all do that. It’s how we’re wired in our culture.”
“But it’s not the way it works, you say?”
“Yes. That’s not the way it works.”
I smiled. “I like that.”
The next day, I had a conversation with a friend of mine, a wonderful girl named Kayla. In
our conversation, we both expressed our pasts and the way we felt like we could never
have that which we truly desired.
I said, “There are things in my life that I deeply regret, and oftentimes the guilt and
shame are overpowering. It’s been a struggle to forgive myself, but it’s even more difficult
to embrace the forgiveness that God has granted me. Sometimes I feel that because of my
past, because of the dark skeletons in my musty closet, God will never grant me the desires
ANTHONY BARNHART
of my heart. I feel that at one time, God had a desire to satisfy my wishes for a loving wife
and loving family, but now I have strayed too far and committed too many crimes to ever
taste that which I hunger and thirst for.”
In our conversation, we both realized that while we have demons with which we
battled and skeletons that hung over us as we slept, in the center of our beings, we were
still good people.
I added, “I still desire to love and cherish and treat a girl right, to give her the world
and the love she’s never had, to be a great father who spends time with his kids and loves
them more than anything in the entire world. It’s a wonderful, simple dream. I’ve made
mistakes. But we all do. We live. We learn. We become better. That’s what I’m doing. That’s
what we’re doing.”
Cara and I began taking drives all the time, especially when the sun would set. We would
drive all over Cincinnati, forgetting all our worries and cares, lost only in the drive and the
wind breaking over the windshield, lost in the sparkling city lights and the Cincinnati
night-life. We would turn up the radio and sing the songs really loud until our throats
burst, and then we would laugh until exhaustion hit us, pulling onto campus after curfew
and barely making it to our beds before we collapsed. We talked about all kinds of things:
our hopes and dreams, our greatest desires, our fears. One conversation I remember very
well, a conversation that helped me come to a deeper and richer understanding of God’s
grace.
The conversation began with my words: “I often have a difficult time with grace. I
can’t explain it. I guess I have this mindset that I need to earn it, even though I know that it
cannot be earned and is a free gift. I’m uncomfortable with the idea of grace: God forgives
all of my rottenness and sin, and then He lavishes me with favor and love and acceptance
and blessings. I have a hard time stomaching that. I look at the sin in my life, the things I
deal with, and I think, ‘Sure, I have mercy… But grace? No way. I’m too bad to experience
grace.’ I look at the sin in my life and think it is a barrier to me experiencing the grace of
God.”
Cara didn’t speak for a moment. “I struggle with that, too.”
“Really? You seem so happy all the time.”
“I know. It’s kind of… a mask… I wear. I have a bad past, too.”
“Would you… like to share it?”
“Will you share yours?”
“I’ll go first if you want.”
“No, I can.” So she started talking. And talking.
Tears welled up in my eyes.
When she finished talking, the sun had completely set.
The gas was getting low.
She eyed me, tense and nervous, fearing judgment and condemnation. “What are you
thinking?” she asked quietly, fearing the worst.
ANTHONY BARNHART
“I’m thinking,” I replied slowly, “that this shocks me. It shocks me that you’ve had to
go through all of that. And it amazes me that you’re still holding onto hope that real love
exists, even if it seems that love is a hoax.”
I wrote in my journal that night:
Cara is adorable. I can’t deny that I like this girl. It breaks my heart to hear
all that she’s gone through. I just want to show her that real love exists. In a
world where she’s been beaten and mauled and chewed apart by evil
masquerading under the guise of love, I want to show her that real love
exists.
I went to Mt. Echo one evening. Cara had gone home for the day to visit her mom. When
Cara was around, all the pain vanished; but without her at her side, the depression crept up
once more. I sat and prayed, and I heard God’s calm, quiet whisper: “Everything will be
okay, My child. I promise. This is a hard time for you, I know, but know that I am beside
you and here for you. I really do care. Please understand that I really do want you to be
happy. I want you to enjoy life. Right now you’re suffering lots of disappointment. It’s a
great time of testing. I know it hurts; I have heard your prayers, and I care about you. I like
you and love you. My child, listen to Me: you need to move on. You need to forget the
disappointment, forget the hurt, and forge ahead. I have a bigger and better plan for your
life. Despite what your feelings tell you, I have not abandoned you, nor have I forsaken
you. This is what you need to remember, and do remember these words: you have suffered
disappointment, but I will bring you the deliverance you so strongly desire! When that day
comes, you will be so thankful that you are with the one whom I have for you. And all of the
disappointments you’ve gone through and all the sufferings you’ve endured will become
mere memories. I am in control. I am guiding your life. I like you, I love you, I forgive you,
and you are in My favor. You are My child. I am not the demanding, sadistic Judge you
sometimes think I am. No, I am the tender, loving, gentle Father who desires the best for
you. Drink deep of Me, and I will give you the desires of your heart.”
The next day Cara was back on campus, and we hung out all evening. We sat on the steps
behind her dorm and talked for an hour, then took a random walk down Glenway Avenue.
We jumped into my car and grabbed a midnight dinner at MCDONALD’S. We talked a lot
about our break-ups with our exes. We both took the break-ups hard not because we liked
our significant others so much but because those relationships represented that our dreams
(being good spouses and good parents) might come to bear on reality. I enjoyed spending
time with her, and it was clear that I liked her. But I feared to tell her, fearing that I would
lose the great moments we shared. I wrote this quote my journal:
To laugh is to risk appearing a fool.

To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.
To reach out for another person is to risk involvement.
ANTHONY BARNHART
To expose one’s feelings is to risk rejection.

To place your dreams before the crowd is to risk ridicule.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To go forward in the face of overwhelming odds is to risk failure.
But risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk
nothing.
The person who risks nothing does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing.
He may avoid sufferings and sorrows, but he cannot learn,
feel, change, grow, or love.
Chained by his certitudes, he is a slave.
He has forfeited his freedom.
Only a person who takes risks is free.
~ Leo Buscaglia
Certain “certitudes” bind me, and under their spells I become a slave,
bending over and gritting my teeth with their lacerating lashings. I am
chained by my past, unable to breathe and unable to feel, thinking that all
that has ever been is all that will ever be. I am given the opportunity to take
off the iron shackles, but yet I continue to turn my face from freedom. What
is it that frightens me? It is the fear that freedom is hopeless, that where lies
freedom, therein lies suffering. I am afraid to risk, for every time I have
risked, I have been hurt. I am afraid to place my dreams before others,
afraid to go forward in the face of overwhelming odds, afraid to reach out
for others, afraid to expose my feelings, afraid to love. I am afraid of this
because there is the great chasm of risk that must be leapt. A part of me
screams to leap that chasm and see what happens; maybe my fears will die
and my “certitudes” will be crushed to powder. Another part of me
whispers, “Every time you have leapt before, you’ve just been more
bloodied, beaten, and marred than before. You’re just going to get hurt.” So
I can either leap the chasm, embracing either pain in defeat or joy in
victory… or I can remain among those quiet, timid souls who know neither
victory nor defeat.
Cara invited me to go to the movies with her the next day. She exclaimed, “I’m really
excited, and I hope you are, too!” They decided they were going to get tattoos, too. The
next day dawned, and we set out early with Trista to the tattoo parlor. Cara got REDEEMED
tattooed on her wrist; “I’ve been redeemed from my past,” Cara told me. I smiled: “I like
that.” We went and saw the movie Premonitions, and then Cara and I sat in the swing on
campus, watching the city lights. It was a wonderful day! I wrote in my journal:
For months I lived a life of numbness, vacancy, hopelessness and despair.

But as soon as it felt like things would never change, my life completely
turned around. I finally feel alive, I finally laugh and feel free and experience
ANTHONY BARNHART
the beauties of existence. But is this all a mirage? Is this all hopeful wishing?
I look at myself in the mirror and shake my head. I am not that kind of boy. I
am afraid I might be letting myself be suckered into delusions and fantasies,
allowing my mind to take my emotions captive and funneling them through
dead-end streets. I want this to be real. I want this to be what God told me
about. I want this to be one of the reasons I am existing on this earth. But yet
I am so terrified: “What if this is just another dead-end road? What if this
goes nowhere? What if I’m deceiving myself?” I always let myself fall into
gaping holes when I least expect it, where everything is supposed to be
smooth and polished. Right when I stop watching my steps, I fall—and
while I hope it is a beautiful collision, most of the time it just turns out to be
another crevice which I have to pull myself free of. However, whatever
happens, it’s nothing extraordinary: if it is a dead-end, as I fear, I shall exit
the street and continue on. I’ve done it a thousand times before.
Why am I so afraid? I know of so many boys who are not frightened like
me. I think it’s because of the accumulation of past events and emotional
trauma due to mental disorders that have brought out such a stigma against
myself that fear has become my most intimate ally. I refuse to believe that I
am lovable. I am ashamed of my looks, ashamed of my past, ashamed of
who I am. I realize I have not made the same mistakes others have made,
mistakes that are apparent to all who might inquire, but my own mistakes
and errors and pitfalls are deeper: they find their home in my heart. I have
such shame that I feel like I can never be the good boyfriend, the good
husband, the good father, nor the good servant of God whom I so strongly
desire to be. I find myself dreaming of a future of being a good husband
and a good father and serving God in advancing His kingdom, and instead
of excitement I experience dread: This is the life you so desperately seek, a voice
whispers to me, but you’ll never taste it. You’ll never be good enough. First and
foremost, the voice tells me, I will never be good enough, attractive enough,
funny enough, or cool enough for a girl to ever find her eye upon me—and
without that first step, how shall I ever become the “family man” I so
earnestly wish to become? All of these doubts and uncertainties plague me.
Cara and I were sitting out on the swing last night, and she said, “I guess
I’m just seeing where life is taking me.” While she didn’t mean it (so far as I
remember) in the way that I now use it, that’s what I feel like I must do: just
sit back and let life take me where it will. Sit back and see what happens.
Don’t dream, don’t hope, don’t desire… because dreaming, hoping, and
desiring all ends in disappointment. Better to resign than to hope in a
resolution that will never come.
ANTHONY BARNHART
Cara and I began spending a lot of time at what we called “The Beach.” It was just a strip of
sand along the shore of Newport, Kentucky, with Newport on the Levee hanging in the
backdrop. We would go and hang out for hours, talking about nothing and everything and
enjoying every minute of it. When we would get back to campus, she would sit in the car
for long periods of time, talking and laughing and playing with her necklace.
One evening she told me, “I have something to tell you… But I don’t know if it’s the
right time.”
My mind whirred and my heart raced.
Fortune on the doorstep?!
But I refused to give in. I refused to hope. I’d been hurt so many times and in so many
different ways that hope itself had become a pain. My past imprisoned me, as I wrote in my
journal:
Sometimes I feel so imprisoned by my past

that I am afraid to dream that
there might be more to life than what I have experienced.
And this fear holds me captive.
Cara and I went to Mt. Echo one warm spring afternoon. As we walked along the view
overlooking the city, the river, and the foothills of northern Kentucky, she said, “I really like
hanging out with you, and I think you’re a really great guy. Guys like you aren’t easy to
find.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And with total sincerity, I think you’re wonderful, too.”
“I feel like I don’t deserve a good guy. Maybe that’s why I always go for guys who just
want to use me.”
“You’re wonderful, Cara. You really are. Your past means nothing. Whoever ends up
with you is going to be extremely lucky. I know you refuse to believe me, but I’m not lying.
I promise.”
Sometimes it feels like months go without the scent of change wafting in the
air, without any reason to dream that things could be better… and then in a
moment, everything changes. In two weeks, everything has changed. I’m
hoping and praying that this change will be a lasting change, that it is not
an ill-founded hope that shall be shattered on the rocks like so many of the
changes I’ve gone through in the past. I’m hoping that I stand at the
threshold of a different existence, where things start to come together and
life begins to make just a little bit of sense. I’m frightened, though, because it
seems like every time change does make its appearance, it is an illusion—
and when one tastes the sweet nectar of deliverance, only to have it taken
away in a heartbeat, it is the most excruciating pain imaginable. It feels as if
your heart ventricles are filled with battery acid, smothered in gasoline, and
then lit on fire and left to burn in the wastelands of the vacuums of space.
ANTHONY BARNHART
Perhaps I am exaggerating; yes, I do believe I am. All I know is that the last
two weeks have been wonderful. I have felt at peace, been joyful, and
genuine depression has been a mere memory.
Why am I so frightened? I’ve always been so brave when it comes to these

things. But now I find myself literally scared. Is it because there’s so much to
lose? Is it because I’ve been hurt so many times in the past? Is it because I
just think I am too unlovable, too revolting, too despicable? Or is it just
because I am so ashamed of my past that I don’t think that God will ever—
could ever—grant me the desires of my heart (my own past stares me down,
and sometimes I feel as if God is shaking His head and thinking, “I can
never bless someone like you. You’re too rotten.”)? I can’t really tell you
why. All I know is that I find myself between a rock and a hard place:
dreaming of a tangible future, but wondering if it will ever be a reality or if
it’s just destined to be a dream forever.
A NEW BEGINNING
We sat on the bench at the PURPLE PEOPLE BRIDGE, watching the sun set over the hills beyond
the twisting Ohio River, the last rays of sunlight dancing over the western faces of the
Cincinnati skyline. We sat close to one another on the bench, just watching the sun set in
pure simplicity. Not much was said. I realized after sitting down that this was where I had
failed to throw myself into the water last December, nearly four—no, five—months ago.
Now all that I had been through seemed like a vague memory. I forgot about Rebecca when
in Cara’s presence, and Kaitlyn didn’t affect me. I had dealt with my issues from the
breakup, and I had come to grips with my identity in Christ, not letting the sins of my past
consume me. I wanted something pure and good, a love so sharp and real that it could
never be denied. I hoped and prayed that I could show this love to Cara and not mess
things up as I always did.
Slowly, cautiously, I wrapped my arm around her. She leaned in and stroked my knee
with her finger. We didn’t say anything. No words needed to be said. We both knew the
affection we shared—all mystery was blown to shreds—but both of us were afraid to admit
it. For the longest time we sat there, just admiring the sunset, feeding off one another’s
warmth.
I leaned over, whispered in her ear, “What are you thinking?”
And then, so gently and tenderly, yet in a way that meant everything:
She kissed me.
ANTHONY BARNHART
EPILOGUE
Valleys & Mountaintops
Life is a journey. New chapters are constantly being written, the beginnings and ends
unknown until they arrive and pass us by. Our lives are a sequence of scenes and acts, in
which we are actors and actresses, each working together to the masterpieces we are
writing—on an individual, communal, and global scale. Each scene is laced with
foreshadowing we cannot perceive, mysteries we cannot understand, and each scene gives
rise to the next. Our lives are comedies, dramas, soap operas, and thrillers. Each of our
stories is filled with surprise twists and turns, leaving us outside the realm of control over
our own destinies.
I have come to view my life as a story. As I look back through all the years I’ve walked on
this earth, I come to view my life as an unfolding epic where new actors are born, where
nobodies become stars, where stars become nobodies, and where the future hangs in the
balance in my decisions here-and-now. There are high points. There are low points. There
are beginnings and endings. There are detours, short-cuts, long-cuts, and dead-ends. There
are times when life is going at a lightning-fast pace and I can barely hold on; and at other
times, life plods slowly along, like a giant dinosaur ambling aimlessly. There are times I
want to weep, times I want to laugh; time when I am filled with energy, vigor, and passion;
and times when I want nothing to do but curl into a fetal position and cry myself to sleep.
In all of the events of my life, in the good and the bad, I am being transformed. I am being
molded and shaped, by both my life experiences and by God. At times it feels like nothing
is happening; but as I look back on the past, I can see how I have grown, matured, and
developed. And I can see that God really did know what He was doing.
I’m not sure what the future holds. I’m not sure if I want to know what the future holds.
Some days trusting God continues to be a struggle; other days, it comes easy. In the end, we
all must do what Mark recommended so long ago: “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.” It’s a
wild, crazy, unpredictable ride, with tragedies and heartbreaks, with thrills and
excitements. We never know what’s around the next curve. The pages written in this book
come mostly from my own life experiences. Through them I was transformed. “Who I Am”
was changed. I entered my sophomore year of college expecting to be changed; and when I
returned home for summer, I had changed—but not in a way I had expected. Was it a good
change? A bad change? Neither, I suppose. But God was at work through it all, and He’s
still at work. And I can’t wait to shut down this laptop, take a deep breath… and make that
phone call.
ANTHONY BARNHART
ANTHONY BARNHART

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LOSING

This novel is dedicated to those precious persons who stood by my side in my

Special thanks in particular go to two of my good friends from college, Caleb

Was I bewitched so by the thin red line

He stands and watches her walk away,

He wants her back. He wants to hold her, comfort her,

To others it is the sweet song of life, a deliverance, a gift.

to understand and be understood, to comfort and be comforted,

A deep serenity embraces him, promising him

Tuesday, February 14, 2007 — VALENTINE’S DAY [journal entry]

I want to kill myself.

God has given me so much, but my selfishness becomes so evident. So

How come I am forced to see my hopes pulled asunder by the greedy

How come everything I’ve always wanted is handed over to a turncoat so

No answers, only tears, and one whisper: “I love you.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but I tasted the first-fruits of “manic-depression” or

WHY AM I ALWAYS THE LONE MAN OUT?

I was taken from my first girlfriend when my family moved. My second

And here I am. Alone. Forsaken? Destitute.

Could God—would God?—pity me and come to my deliverance? He has

THE QUESTIONS BURN ME.

Why must my dreams always be dreams?

Why must my heart always ache like this?

Why has God made me like this—and then left me alone?

Why must I always long—and never be longed-for?

OH! FOR THINGS TO CHANGE!

Does she exist?

“But look at all the Christians in bad marriages!”

I want to find a woman, and I want to be naked with her emotionally,

We were not designed to be alone. Sometimes the message we get--or at

I am so terrified of being alone.

THE BEGINNING OF THE SAGA

THE QUIET STORM RAGING WITHIN ME

“How can we be so ignorant?” I had no idea.

“Anthony. Calm down. That’s not going to happen.”

AN INNOCENT NIGHT AT STARBUCKS

“No, at STARBUCKS. Her father went to C.B.C.”

“But I wanted to see them with you.”

MY FIRST TASTE OF ROMANCE

When I got home, a message was waiting for me on my email:

Around 2:30 a.m., I opened up my laptop and wrote an email to Sammy:

I didn’t try to explain myself out of her cynicism.

She nodded, sniffling. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“It’s okay, Sammy. You hear me? It’s okay?”

CONTEMPLATING THE FUTURE

I can’t wait to pick on my kids and make them laugh.

What did I do wrong to deserve this?

My dream, you know, is simple:

it is taken away… even done so

“I have someone for you this year.”

WRESTLING THE LIONFISH

She never wrote me back.

“Really?!” I asked, amazed. “I could never memorize that much!”

I could not keep her out of my mind… nor out of my journals:

“I want you to want me,

I’m begging you to beg me…”

“Thanks,” I said with a wink.

A NIGHT I’LL ALWAYS REMEMBER

She’s such a good girl! How could I be so blessed?

Are you stopping smoking because it’s what you want to do or

Why have you never dated your best friend Ashlie?

To be honest, I laughed after I read that aloud.

Do these questions make you mad?

I eyed her. “You don’t like my hair?”